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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833977">Giant eldritch eyes and other things that can fuck up your day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiosyncraticprojection/pseuds/idiosyncraticprojection'>idiosyncraticprojection</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...how did that even happen, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ashes O’Reilly and Gunpowder Tim are Siblings, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Crossover, Gen, Genderfluid Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gun Violence, I really feel like that should be a tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is Bad at Feelings, Neurodivergent Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Now it’s longer than anything I’ve ever written!, Protective Jonny d'Ville, Protective Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Protective mechanisms in general actually, The Mechanisms-Typical Temporary Character Death, The Mechanisms-Typical Violence, Vague angst, Violence, Violence against Children, as I am incapable of writing anything else apparently, but it gets better, neurodivergent everyone, the mechs canNot parent children but they try to, this started out as like, two fifths of an idea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:28:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>41,121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833977</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiosyncraticprojection/pseuds/idiosyncraticprojection</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Sims has a secret, which really isn’t all that surprising. Everyone has secrets, everyone has troubled pasts, and everyone has things that they’d really rather hide.</p><p>In no place does this come into play more often than in the Crew of the Starship Aurora, who happen to be Jon’s secret in the first place.</p><p>or, an AU where a mishap with an eldritch entity leads the Mechanisms to being...somewhat entangled in the life of one Jonathan Sims.</p><p> </p><p>Updates every Wednesday, or sooner.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James &amp; Michael | The Distortion, Sasha James &amp; Tim Stoker, The Mechanisms Ensemble &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, more to be added as the appear - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>388</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Giant Eldritch Eye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This idea broke into my house and demanded I give it cash and old shoestrings</p><p>I’ve got an actual schedule for this! which! I have never done before! </p><p>The title is a work in progress, if anyone has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them!</p><p>cws will appear at the beginnings of chapters, if I miss one, please don’t hesitate to tell me!</p><p>-<br/>Cws for:<br/>-mechs typical death content<br/>-dubiously ethical science<br/>-eldritch weirdness, but mild</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jonny is a dumbass. It has consequences.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The eye was large, and green, and standing quite decisively in Jonny’s way.</p><p>            “What the fuck?” he asked.</p><p>            The eye blinked reproachfully. It did not answer him.</p><p>            .</p><p>            The Aurora had been drifting for a good six months in as yet uncharted area of space, tracking what Raphaella had called “a significant eldritchscopic abrasion in the fabric of reality”. It sounded dull as anything to Jonny, but he didn’t care, even if he did put up a show of complaining and shooting Marius in the head for good measure. He had gotten a new belt out of the whole thing, which was good enough for him.</p><p>            The eye had been unexpected (at least to Jonny—Raphaella had started yelling excitedly and doing very science-y things at a speed never before seen by mankind, but she tended to do that at any scientific abnormality she encountered). The crew had been taking a little violence break in a small nowhere planet when it had appeared—the Toy Soldier being the first to notice it (“Why Look, Chaps! The Sky is Staring Back!” It had said with a cheery grin).</p><p>            It hadn’t taken long for Raphaella to rope Jonny into what was essentially poking the eye in, well, the eye (i.e. her killing him and then strapping him to the front of the Aurora with a steel cable attached to his waist).</p><p>            And thus, the situation was set.</p><p>            Jonny stared at the eye as it stared at him (but it was an eye, so wasn’t it technically staring at everything? Weird-ass eldritch beings and their weird-ass physics).</p><p>            “Well?” he asked, as much as he could ask anything in the vacuum of space. “What the hell do ya want?” The rope coiled loosely behind him, and Jonny absently tied and untied knots into the cable.  “Raph won’t let me back until you’ve done something,” Jonny made a face—“<em>interesting, </em>so do something now and get it over with, or I’ll be stuck out here for the next decade. Capiche?”</p><p>            The eye said nothing, as it was an eye and thus couldn’t speak.</p><p>            Then again, it was also sitting stagnant in empty space, so Jonny guessed it wasn’t implausible that it <em>could </em>speak. Inconsiderate eye, breaking some of the laws of physics but not the ones that were convenient for Jonny.</p><p>            The eye blinked as Jonny flipped it off, seemingly contemplative of the strange and vicious little man that was now baring his teeth at it.</p><p>            Not that it could actually contemplate anything. Or could it? If there was an eye, there was bound to be a body somewhere, Jonny reasoned. He decided he didn’t want to meet the rest of the body.</p><p>            Or maybe he did. It might feel cathartic to shoot the brains out of an eldritch Eye from (most likely, if Raphaella’s scientific jargon was anything to go by) beyond this realm. If it had brains to begin with.</p><p>            Wait. That sounded like something Raphaella would think of. Why the hell was <em>he, </em>Jonny <em>D’ville, </em>gunslinger extraordinaire, questioning the scientific existence of something so stupid as a supposed eldritch being’s body? The eye stared through him placidly, its mere presence urging him to Question, to Understand, to Know—</p><p>            Jonny instinctively put a hand on his gun.</p><p>            Goddammit, this fucking eye was making him contemplate things. It <em>had </em>to be messing with his head—there was no way he would do anything as <em>intellectual </em>as…as….god, he couldn’t even say it.</p><p>            Yeah, there was no way this thing was going to make Jonny Know <em>anything </em>Jonny didn’t want to.</p><p>            Jonny flipped himself so the eye was facing him right-side up. He grinned at it—one of his signature manic looks—, unholstered his gun, and pointed it at the eye in one fluid motion.</p><p>            Man, Raph was gonna kill him for this.</p><p>            Oh, well. He could spend a decade down with the slavering moon beast if he had to.</p><p>            He raised an eyebrow at the eye, and shot it point blank.</p><p>
  <em>            And that’s when things started to get weird.</em>
</p><p>.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>            A slightly different perspective on the same event…</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>            The Eye had been watching the Starship Aurora for some time now.</p><p>           Of course, it had always Known of them (word of immortal space pirates with a steampunk aesthetic traveled fast over galaxies, and the Eye was always up on the latest gossip). It Knew everything. The Crew of the Starship Aurora were interesting, however—the closest mortals had gotten to true immortality that the Eye had seen in a long time, and thus worthy of its attention.</p><p>            And so it manifested a physical form.</p><p>            It wasn’t its full being—that was impossible for any one being to comprehend fully, and not all of it was truly conscious, existing only to Know and for it to be Known—but it was imposing enough.</p><p>            The Crew was acting somewhat strangely to its presence—something to be expected, of course, they had most likely seen Beings like it before—the fear that its physical form usually elicited was all but gone, replaced with a manic curiosity that the Eye (or, at least, this part of it, the part that could consciously think as a mortal) respected bafflingly.</p><p>            And now there was one of the Crew (Jonny D’ville (Vangelis), a mechanical <em>ticktickticktick </em>heart and the Oldest of them all. First mate.) in front of him, making rude gestures and…was that a bargain it was trying to make?</p><p>            It studied him. If it had a head, it would have tilted it.</p><p>            It Knew this man, as it Knew all things. It Knew his anger, his manic violence, his suppressed emotions under layers and layers of vicious Slaughter.</p><p>            He was so afraid of being Known.</p><p>            It felt the Stories in its <em>tickticktick </em>mechanical heart, in the spaceship behind it, in the Crew (mostly) watching intently from the window. It contemplated this as it flicked quickly back to its Temple, and then back again. It was curious, of course, but it was always curious.</p><p>It would have to gather more information, sit back, and let the Narrative take its course before jumping to any hasty decisions.</p><p>            It turned away to blink again, the endless gibbering of the man in front of it growing somewhat tiresome. It would be back later, when its Plans were in a bit more completion, to this Crew.</p><p>            The Eye (the Beholding the Ceaseless Watcher the It Knows You so many Names all of them Its) turned itself to its Temple, the Institute, its worshippers so resplendent in its glory. It allowed itself to bask in its Knowing for a minute longer before returning to itSelf.</p><p>            And in that moment of distraction, the man with the mechanical heart shot the Eye.</p><p>            <em>And things started to get a bit weird.</em></p><p>            .</p><p>            <strong><em>An earlier perspective, spanning slightly longer in a somewhat linear fashion….</em></strong></p><p>Raphaella la Cognizi was having the best day she had had in centuries.</p><p>            The spacial disruption would have been interesting in its own right, but an actual <em>manifestation </em>of a creature that could very well be from <em>another realm of reality</em>—she could hardly keep herself from flapping her wings in pure exhilaration.</p><p>            She had called everyone to the main Bridge (most had come just to see Jonny floating out of the airlock, but Raphaella could pretend that they were all there for the Science), enlisting the Toy Soldier and Brian’s help in carrying the portable scanner equipment from her lab. Even Nastya was there, which was surprising, as she hadn’t been seen in the main areas of the Aurora for months now.</p><p>            “Well, what <em>are </em>we looking at?” Ashes asked, loosely handling a cigar in one hand. “Other than us torturing Jonny, I mean. Which is all well and good, but still.” They poked one of the radiation scanners experimentally. It beeped rather loudly in response.</p><p>            “Don’t touch that!” Raphaella’s wings flared in alarm. “This is very delicate equipment!” she quickly recalibrated the device, letting out a sigh.</p><p>            Ashes put their hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry, won’t do it again.” They moved up to the main window, where a flailing Jonny was…was he <em>yelling </em>at the giant floating eye?</p><p>            Raphaella stood, brushing herself off. “To answer your question, Ashes, I am trying to get a good read on the bioradiation signals that seem to be coming from this temporal abnormality, i. e. the eye. Jonny is outfitted with a few different types of scanners, which are transmitting live data back to my equipment here.” Raphaella looked up to stare at the blank faces of the crew.</p><p>            “Oh…kay,” Ashes nodded slowly, eyebrows creased.  “Cool. Jonny looks like he’s having fun up there,” they gestured at the spectacle outside. Raphaella made a sound of acknowledgement, but didn’t look up from her screen.</p><p>            “Twenty credits he tries to shoot the eye,” Marius called from the back.</p><p>            Raphaella shot up immediately, her own eyes wide in shock. “He <em>wouldn’t!”</em></p><p>            Nastya scoffed. “It is a giant target that even <em>he </em>could not miss.” She leaned back against the opposite wall, both hands touching the warm metal. Raphaella whipped around, her hair smacking her in the face. “I wouldn’t take that bet.”</p><p>            “But—but it’s a scientific anomaly! He—no! he wouldn’t—” He would. Raphaella <em>knew</em> he would. She was an <em>idiot! </em>She should have factored that in, but nooo, she wanted to get <em>revenge </em>for a stupid <em>prank, </em>this was <em>exactly </em>why she didn’t let emotions get in the way of science in the first place—</p><p>            “Although there is an 92.4% chance he shoots the eye,” Ivy started, making Raphaella’s heart drop. “Factoring in the fact that it is space, and thus bullets don’t work (also, he has incredibly poor aim), the probability that the eye actually gets <em>shot</em> drops to 4.6%.”</p><p>            Raphaella breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, well in that case—”</p><p>            “However,” Ivy continued, “It is incredibly likely that he will be so pigheaded that he’d break the laws of physics, and thus raising the total probability that he hits the eye to around…” a small pause. “74.03 percent. Sorry, Raphaella.” Ivy gave the mad scientist something that could be construed as a sympathetic look, if you had been around Ivy long enough to know her facial expressions.</p><p>            Raphaella let out a moan. “We’ve got to get him out—Toy Soldier, help me with these cables—”</p><p>            Marius stood fully, making a time-out signal with his hands. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Raph, why is that such a big deal? It’s a freaking eldritch eye, it’s not like a bullet’s going to do anything to it.”</p><p>            Raphaella didn’t look up from her frantic disassembling. “The equipment—scanners, delicate scanners, beautiful scanners,” she smiled to herself, before swallowing and continuing. “—picked up an anomalous energy coming from the abnormality, like…” She groaned as her wings flared outward, the equipment she was trying to carry too large for her to plausibly dismantle. “Marius, stop standing there and help me with this!” Marius quickly jumped into action.</p><p>            “Okay, but like what?” he asked.</p><p>            “Like…” Raphaella wet her lip. “Like, if one’s amygdala was being overstimulated to the point of a complete cortisol overflow, or—”</p><p>            “I don’t know what that means!” Marius exclaimed.</p><p>            Ashes smirked. “And you said that you were a doctor. For shame, Marius. For shame.”</p><p>            “Not the point right now, Ashes! You should be helping with this! A complete cortison rehaul or whatever does not sound good for our…uh…bodies!” Marius nodded at this answer.</p><p>            Ashes shrugged.</p><p>            Raphaella growled. “It’s fear! The creature is pure fear, made out of the chemicals that cause it—it <em>feeds </em>on fear, it is created of fear, and that is incredibly unstable! If Jonny shoots it (the idiot…goddamnit what the <em>stars, </em>Jonny, and you wonder why you’re not the captain), that is putting a part of our <em>Mechanisms, </em>of ourselves, into the eye itself. We’d—we’d be—”</p><p>            “Transported. Somewhere else. Another universe. <em>Its </em>universe.” Ivy realized. She immediately dropped into work.</p><p>            Tim raised an eyebrow as he polished a gun. “Well, yeah, but why not? It’s been a while since we’ve had a good alternate dimension adventure. We might even get a story out of it.”</p><p>            “Gunpowder Tim all of my equipment is over here if you are saying I would leave all that behind for some stupid—”</p><p>            Tim gasped, holding a hand to his ches. “Firstnaming me! How could you, Raphaella! I thought we were friends!”</p><p>            “No, you’re just easy to rope into experiments,” Raphaella muttered.</p><p>            “<em>Raphaella!” </em>Tim gasped in mock offense.</p><p>            “What about Aurora?” Nastya asked. “Would she be… transported as well?”</p><p>            “Well, she <em>is </em>mechanized, so I’d assume so,” Raphaella shrugged as she furtively recalibrated the sensors. “Speaking of. Aurora, could you please open the airlock so I can reel Jonny back?”</p><p>            Aurora rumbled around the crew, a low hum that quickly cascaded into a shrill beeping.</p><p>            Nastya stood up in an instant. “Aurora, what is it? What—” she stilled. “Oh, the <em>idiot.”.</em></p><p>            Brian, who had remained mostly silent into know, spoke up. “What? What is it?”</p><p>            Nastya never got the chance to respond. All at once, a loud <em>bang </em>was heard from outside the Aurora, resonating in a way that <em>really </em>should not have been possible.</p><p>            “What the—”</p><p>            And then there was a light.</p><p>
  <em>            And things started to get a bit weird.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>            Jonathan Sims was born on a rainy afternoon in April, 1987.</p><p>            His birth was immediately succeeded by the appearance of nine space pirates.</p><p>            And things started to iron themselves out, as these things often do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me writing Raphaeela: so she did some sciencey things</p><p>-</p><p>Comments, critiques, and kudos are always obliged! Thank you so much for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Nosy, Well-meaning Children.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Snippets into the the childhood of one Jonathan Sims.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cws for:<br/>-children<br/>-gun violence<br/>-violence against children (please take this seriously—to skip it, go from “D’ville shook his head,” to “Lizzie screwed her eyes up and shook her head”.<br/>-mild references to arachnophobia<br/>-implied child abuse (Jon’s grandmother was kinda not cool guys)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>           Jonathan Sims’s first memory was of a gunshot.</p><p>           He had to have been about five or six at the time, and the sound rang in his eardrums something terrible.</p><p>            Now, most children, upon hearing a gunshot, would have screamed and run in the opposite direction.</p><p>            Unfortunately for him, Jonathan Sims was not most children.</p><p>            No, Jon remembered knowing the gun that sound came out of—a sixgun, D’ville’s, a little dented in the corner where Nastya had hit D’ville upside the head with it a couple centuries ago.</p><p>            What Jon <em>was </em>worried about, however, was how whoever D’ville had shot would retaliate. Jon was in the middle of a <em>very </em>interesting book that Ivy had picked out for him, and it was going to be too loud to get <em>anything </em>done, much less read, as soon as whoever had just died revived themself.</p><p>            He didn’t remember else of the memory, just that feeling of loving exasperation—and a gunshot.</p><p>.</p><p>             Jonathan Sims also remembered the exact moment when he realized that not all people had a Crew—slightly later in life, perhaps at seven, when he started school. Of course, he had had people ignore the Crew before, but only adults. Other children always seemed happy enough to talk about their own People, although they weren’t always called Crews.</p><p>             Grownups called them “imaginary friends”. Jon knew they were anything but imaginary, but he had concluded that only children had Crews after asking his grandmother about it and getting smacked in response.</p><p>             Maybe it was impolite to talk about Crews to grownups. Maybe their own Crews had left, and they missed them, which was why all the adults got so weird when Jon talked about proper gun polishing methods he had learned from D’ville and Gunpowder, or when he spoke in the Cyberian that Nastya had been teaching him.</p><p>             This particular memory started in a sandbox at recess.</p><p>             He had been talking to the Toy Soldier about proper teamaking methods (Jon was already saving all his baby teeth to put in his grandmother’s tea, just like the Toy Soldier said), when a little child in tight pigtails and a pale pink skirt walked up to him, rudely interrupting the Toy Soldier.</p><p>             “Why’re you talking to thin air?” The kid (“Her name’s Lizzie, in case you don’t know,” Brian called to him from the swingset.) asked, cutting the Toy Soldier’s recommendation on molars instead of incisors for more herbal teas.</p><p>             “I am not!” Jon retorted. “That was very rude, interrupting the Toy Soldier like that!”</p><p>             “You have toy soldiers? Can I play with them?”</p><p>             “Yes He Does!” the Toy Soldier said happily. “And My Pronouns are It/Its, Thanks!”</p><p>             Lizzie stared blankly at Jon, obviously waiting a response. “Well?” she prompted. “Why aren’t you answering me?”</p><p>             Jon blinked. “the Toy Soldier <em>did </em>just answer you. Why are you ignoring it? That’s rude, you know. You’re being very rude.”</p><p>             Lizzie gasped, her face turning slightly pink. “I am<em> not! </em>Just because you’re playing pretend doesn’t mean you can be so mean to me!”</p><p>            “Am not! I <em>know </em>you can see it, and you saying you can’t just so you can look like a grownup is very mean! Your Crew must be very upset at you, pretending you can’t see them like that!” Jon crossed his arms as D’ville came up behind him, presumably attracted by the conflict.</p><p>            “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lizzie held her arms out, one of them going right through the Toy Soldier’s chest. Her eyes were watery and red. “I don’t <em>see </em>anything!”</p><p>            “Hey, kiddo, what’s going on?” D’ville asked, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder.</p><p>            Jon looked up. “Lizzie’s saying she can’t see you but she’s obviously lying and I know that grownups can’t see Crews but kids can and so Lizzie’s lying and she’s being <em>very rude!” </em>now angry tears were streaking down Jon’s cheeks, his body tense as he crossed his arms and turned to Lizzie. “Stop being rude and stop ignoring my Crew!”</p><p>            Lizzie looked at the space above Jon’s head, eyebrows creased, and lips pressed into a line. “Jon, please stop pretending,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “You’re kind of a little bit scaring me.”</p><p>            D’ville stared at Jon, an unreadable expression on his face. “Jonny-kid, she <em>can’t </em>see me, or the rest of the Mechs.”</p><p>            Jon sniffed in surprise. “What?! But kids can see you! Remember, Xia from across the street with the elephant said he could and he promised he didn’t lie!”</p><p>            Gunpowder shook his head, sitting down cross-legged so as to be eye level with Jon. “Xia was just pretending, Jonny-kid,” he said, softer than he said most things. “No one else can see us. Only you. I thought you knew.” A pause, as D’ville’s grin grew to one Jon knew very well. “You want me to show you?”</p><p>            Before Jon could respond, D’ville had pulled his gun out of his holster and shot it at Lizzie.</p><p>            Jon gasped in horror. One of the things that got repeated to Jon by his Crew (i.e. Brian) was that although the Crew was immortal, Jon and everyone else in the world were not, so although it was okay for the Crew to kill each other, Jon should <em>never, ever, under any circumstances, </em>kill <em>anyone. </em></p><p>            And now D’ville had shot a bullet at Lizzie—Jon could see it racing the air, getting closer and closer to the little girl’s head and there was nothing he could do to stop it—</p><p>            And it went right through her, not even touching her fragile skin. She blinked.</p><p>            “D’ville that was very rude!” Jon gasped.</p><p>            D’ville shrugged. “She couldn’t feel it. ‘S’not like it did any damage.”</p><p>            Jon turned to Lizzie, who was now standing with half of her body overlapping with the Toy Soldier’s. “I am So Sorry Lizzie that was very rude of D’ville he shouldn’t of done that and apparently you can’t hear his apology but he definitely said it.”</p><p>            Lizzie screwed her eyes up and shook her head. “No. I don’t wanna pretend anymore. You’re weird.” She ran away, towards the swingset, barreling right through Brian in the process.</p><p>            “What was that all about?” Brian asked.</p><p>            “Apparently Jonny-kid thought that kids could see us, and got into a bit of a tiff with some other kid about it, so I explained to him, gently, that no, it seems that only he can see us, and the kid walked off.”</p><p>            “D’ville shot Lizzie! But it went right through her!” Jon explained.</p><p>            “Jonny!” Brian gasped.</p><p>            D’ville did not have the tact to look contrite, instead grinning like he had accomplished some sort of goal. “She was being rude, and besides, Raph already deduced that it wouldn’t do anything. Slightly different plane of existence that only Jonny-kid can pick up on or whatever, right?”</p><p>            Brian sighed. “Yes, but Jon—”</p><p>            “Everything worked out fine, didn’t it, TS?”</p><p>            “It’s True, Pilot Brian, We Were Having A Jolly Good Time!” the Toy Soldier grinned wider than its standard smile, and Gunpowder beamed back at it.</p><p>            “That doesn’t matter! You still could have—”</p><p>            At this point, Jon stopped listening in (boring grownup talk and all that), and thus, the recess bell and a sense of understanding ended this memory.</p><p>            .</p><p>            The third memory worth noting, in this series of events, happened when he was eight years old, but all that came out of that particular memory was an intense arachnophobia, so Jon didn’t dwell on it.</p><p> </p><p>            .<br/>
    </p><p>            Jonah Magnus smiled, opening his eyes.<br/>
             <br/>
            <br/>
            Yes.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>            Jonathan Sims was <em>perfect.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me, trying to make the Mechs good parental figures: so jonny shot a child </p><p>Comments and Kudos are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Jonah Magnus’s absolute idiocy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jonathan Sims and his relationships during his time in Research.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay okay okay so I know I said that i would next post on Wednesday, but then the feedback I received spurred me on into a writing frenzy, so here’s the third chapter!</p><p>cws for:</p><p>-stalking (Elias-typical)<br/>-mechs-typical death content<br/>-misinformed mental illness (both Jonah and Tim assume Jon has schizophrenia. He does not.)<br/>Please tell me if I missed anything!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Jonah Magnus was very much looking forward to this interview.</p><p>            Of course, Jonathan Sims was going to get this job, if nothing drastic interfered, but the interview was always Jonah’s favorite part. Putting that visceral fear into the very center of one’s being was, for lack of a better term, <em>delicious. </em></p><p>            And oh, how Jonathan Sim’s mind was already so delectably troubled.</p><p>            Just a quick glance into his mind showed a deeply disturbed individual—undiagnosed schizophrenia, or the like, gone overlooked by a neglectful grandmother. His hallucinations were incredibly vivid, each with their own distinct (albeit all alike in the sense of indiscriminate violence) personalities. Jonah didn’t understand the true extent that schizophrenia presented itself to its hosts, and although he <em>could </em>Know the information, he really didn’t care enough to devote the brainpower to the meager curiosity.</p><p>            He had more important things to devote his time to.</p><p>            Jon was a very secluded person—he had very few friends, and no family to speak of. He seemed to take solace in his made-up creations (his Crew, he called them? How quaint.), which was somewhat pathetic in Jonah’s opinion.</p><p>            Not that he was complaining.</p><p>            Jonah glanced at the time—11:24. Six minutes until the interview.</p><p>            He closed his eyes, letting the Eye focus on Jon. He was pacing, alone in the waiting room, signing rapidly to what Jonah surmised was Jon’s ‘Crew’. There seemed something slightly off about them—but that might have just been the slight headache he got from Looking at them. As they were only figments of Jon’s imagination, he had to Look directly into Jon’s head to see them at all (at least, he thought as much. The Eye was being unusually silent, for reasons most likely far beyond Jonah’s comprehension, so he didn’t push it).</p><p>            “…I’m just sayin’, it shouldn’t be such a big deal to be able ta speak more than one language!” One of Jon’s hallucinations was saying.</p><p>            “Seriously, Jonny?” Another was saying—it looked to be entirely made of brass. “It makes perfect sense—the more people you can communicate with—”</p><p>            “—or, in this case, the more languages you can read in—” another hallucination butted in (Jonah blinked, hard. The overlapping voices pierced a very specific part of his brain, and the conversation was getting more difficult to follow as it went on).</p><p>            “Yes, exactly, thank you, Tim, the more you can understand, the more valuable you are.” The brass one finished.</p><p>            The first one—Jonny, was that what the brass one had said? Jonah laughed, that was very self-centered, wasn’t it, naming one’s hallucination after one’s own self—groaned. “But why does <em>Cyberian </em>count as a language anyway? The civilization’s been dead. For centuries.”</p><p>            “Jonny, we have been over this, it’s called <em>Russian, </em>here, and it does stand to reason that in an infinite universe, and finite possibilities for language, there will eventually be an overlap,” another said, this one with intricate metal wings.</p><p>            Jon sat, hard, in a chair. “Can you please stop talking? I just have the strangest headache all of a sudden—” he signed, afterwards rubbing his head with his hands.</p><p>            “What kind of hurt?” The hallucinations with the wings asked. “Are you feeling nauseated? Too warm? Chills?”</p><p>            Jon shook his head. “No, it’s more like—” he wrung his hands out, rewording. “It’s been strange since we entered the Institute, but right now it just got much worse.” He shuddered, and one of the hallucinations went to put a hand on his shoulder. “Like…like we’re being Watched.”</p><p>Jonah ripped his Eyes off Jon and his hallucinations.</p><p>            He could <em>feel </em>the Eye in his mind?</p><p>            Of course, the entire point of the Institute was to collect fear, to compile it, to <em>inspire </em>it, but Jon had <em>felt </em>him, as more of a mild tingling on the back of his neck. That shouldn’t have been possible.</p><p>            His mind must have been very sensitive to the Eye’s touch, if that strong of a reaction had been elicited.</p><p>            Jonah smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dim light of his office.</p><p>            “Rosie, could please send Jon in?” he asked.</p><p>            “Yes, of course, sir.” The prompt response, along with that flair of annoyance that flicked in Rosie’s mind as she answered, gave Jonah a feeling of almost triumph.</p><p>            This was going to go splendidly.</p><p>            .</p><p>            Tim Stoker didn’t know what to make of Jonathan Sims.</p><p>            When they had first met, and Jon had looked like he had been punched in the face when Tim introduced himself, Tim wrote him off as an antisocial weirdo. When he had signed furtively under his desk for someone to “<em>please stop laughing, I’m trying to have a conversation” </em>when Tim had come over to his desk later that day, he came to the same conclusion.</p><p>            But he was a hard worker, and always seemed to know whatever you asked him about. He was pleasant to talk to, and after Tim had mentioned that he knew sign language, Jon had stopped signing to…whoever it was, and took to scribbling in a notebook instead.</p><p>            He brought the man up with Sasha once, after a particularly strange interaction including a bag of teeth and a matchstick, and Sasha had called Jon over the number that Tim decided not to ask where she got.</p><p>            “Hi, you’re Jon, right?” Sasha asked the man over speakerphone.</p><p>            “Uh. Yes?” Jon answered, rightfully confused. “Who is this?”</p><p>            “Sasha James, from research? You wanna join us for lunch?”</p><p>            “I—hello, Sasha—uh, no, thank you,” Jon cleared his throat. “I. am doing. Work. Yes. Important work. How did you get this number?”</p><p>            “Oi, I know that’s a lie,” Tim interjected.</p><p>            “Tim!” Jon exclaimed. “You! are also here! What—what are you doing? Here? With Sasha?”</p><p>            Tim gestured to the phone. <em>See? </em>He mouthed to Sasha, who nodded, clearly thinking. “I’m eating lunch.”</p><p>            A pause.</p><p>            “Alright, guess not then,” Sasha shrugged, going to cancel the call.</p><p>            “Wait! No! I’ll—I’ll eat, with—where are you?”</p><p>            “At the food court, near the giant tree in the middle of the courtyard,” Sasha answered, flicking her eyebrows up at Tim, who silently groaned.</p><p>            “Okay, thank you, I-I’ll see you there, then. Bye.” The call dropped, and Tim gave Sasha a look of anguish.</p><p>            “What?” Sasha asked.</p><p>“Why did you <em>do that, </em>Sasha?” Tim stage whispered. “I was <em>literally just telling you </em>that I <em>thought he was weird!”</em></p><p>Sasha shrugged. “He didn’t seem that bad, honestly, probably just a little socially awkward—”</p><p>“More like he lived in a test tube for the first thirty years of his life,” Tim scoffed.</p><p>Sasha fixed him with a Look. “Don’t be sarcastic, Tim.”</p><p>            “It is my <em>main personality trait, </em>Sash!” Tim gasped. “Like being hot! You can’t just ask me to <em>not be who I am!” </em></p><p>Sasha snorted. “Well, in that case—”</p><p>            Someone cleared their throat. Tim looked up to see Jon, standing there and looking supremely awkward.</p><p>            Sasha broke into a grin. “Hey, Jon! Here, have a seat!” She patted the bench, and Jon sat rigidly.</p><p>            “Thank you. For—ahem,” he cleared his throat again, “For inviting me to lunch. That is. Kind of you.”</p><p>            Tim gave Jon a lopsided grin. “No prob, just welcoming new members of the team!”</p><p>            Jon blinked. “I’ve…been here for two months now.”</p><p>            Tim laughed awkwardly. “Well! My point still stands!”</p><p>            “Oh…kay,” Jon nodded slowly.</p><p>            A lengthy pause.</p><p>            “So…how are you, Jon?” Sasha prompted. “How do you like the Magnus Institute!”</p><p>            Jon swallowed. “It’s…it’s nice, it’s good—” he whipped to look behind him, masking a scowl with a smile. “Yes. Good. I like it here.”</p><p>            “Good! That’s. Good.” Tim gave a weak thumbs up, before realizing, that wow, that was stupid, and awkwardly put it back. “I. Uh. So, what are you eating?”</p><p>            “Souls of the innocent,” Jon deadpanned. His eyes widened in shock, and he clapped a hand to his mouth. His face turned slightly darker as he seemed to realize what he had said.</p><p>            “Pfft—” Tim stifled a laugh, genuine this time. “Now, souls of the innocent are always good for a palate cleanser, there is no mistake. But, as shown here—” he gestured to his thermos of spaghetti—“I prefer the wriggling squelch of worms, myself.”</p><p>            Jon nodded, as if they were talking about spreadsheets, or something equally boring. “They’ve always been a bit rich for my taste, but I see where you’re coming from.”</p><p>            Sasha raised an eyebrow at Tim, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Worms are all well and good, but have you ever tried raw eyeballs?” she interjected.</p><p>            Tim could see Jon visibly loosen up as the lunch progressed, at one point even laughing—a actual one, not one of the awkward ones that he had done previously.</p><p>            Thirty minutes went by quickly, and at the end, Jon seemed to have warmed up to both him and Sasha. They all agreed to meet up again the following week, and Tim left somewhat lighter than he entered.</p><p>            Jon’s ‘quirks’, as they were, didn’t go away, but Tim learned to work around them, and chalked it up to some sort of mental disorder Jon didn’t feel comfortable telling about.</p><p>            That was okay. Everyone had secrets. God knew Tim did.</p><p>            Tim still didn’t know quite what to make of Jon—he was strange, and tense, and such a deadpan sense of humor that Tim couldn’t tell if he was joking half the time.</p><p>            But friends had been made out of less.</p><p>            And, frankly, Tim was glad to have one.</p><p>           </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jonah Magnus is the most obtuse avatar of the eye I have ever had the (dis)pleasure of writing</p><p>-<br/>thank you all so much again for all the comments and kudos!! They really made my day today, and are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Being psychoanalyzed by something you can’t see</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon’s first day at work.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay I promise this is the end of the exposition! Next chapter we get onto the actual story!</p><p>cws for: </p><p>-mechs typical death content<br/>-guns<br/>-paranoia (it’s founded, but still)</p><p>translations in the endnotes!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan Sims took a gun to his first day at the Archives.</p><p>            This particular gun was a six-gun, similar to D’ville’s, but he had plans to store more in other places around his new office—if this place was connected to the thing that had sent his Crew here, then he would certainly need the extra ammunition.</p><p>            “Oi! Jon!” A hand, snapping in front of his face. Gunpowder. “Where’s your head at?”</p><p>            “Somewhere between the mortal terror of going headfirst into an eldritch being’s place of worship and actually having to do work, I suspect,” Jon deadpanned, waving Gunpowder’s hand off.</p><p>            Gunpowder raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I know what that’s like. Mortal terror and all.”</p><p>             Jon snorted, gathering the loose papers that had scattered across the bed in his apartment.</p><p>            “Well, if you’re going to be like that…” Gunpowder pulled a mini axe out of the machete cabinet. “Best put this in as well,” he said, winking.</p><p>            “You truly spoil me, Gunpowder,” Jon sighed, placing the axe in his bag.</p><p>            Marius poked his head in, still slightly soot covered from when he had had a disagreement with Ashes about the proper way to cook eggs a few hours prior. “I still don’t get why <em>Jon </em>gets to call you Gunpowder and I’m relegated to last name status! We’ve been friends for—”</p><p>            Gunpowder threw a knife from Jon’s bag, which directly lodged itself in Marius’s head. “What can I say, I just like him better,” he shrugged, and Jon sighed in exasperation.</p><p>            “<em>Please </em>let’s not have another Ravioli Incident,” Jon said, fond weariness coloring his tone. “The neighbors put up such a fuss at the noise.”</p><p>            “Hey, just because you were screaming like an octokitten the whole time doesn’t mean it was our fault!” Gunpowder laughed, brushing the hair out of Jon’s face. “Technically it was Marius who threw the first blender, anyhow—”</p><p>            “Did not!” Marius called from the floor. He paused, groaning. “Jon, can you help me out here?”</p><p>            Jon stood, plucking the axe from Marius’ forehead. Marius sat up, rolling his shoulders back. “Thanks, kid.”</p><p>            “Now, you guys are going to be <em>quiet, </em>right?” Jon sent a pointed look to Gunpowder and Marius, who both shrugged.</p><p>            “We’ll do our best, but you work directly under Capitalism Incarnate now. I don’t know if we can take you seriously anymore…” Gunpowder smirked.</p><p>            “Since when do you take me seriously anyway?” Jon raised an eyebrow as he closed the bag.</p><p>            “Fair enough.”</p><p>            “Jon?” Ivy popped her head through the doorway. “It is currently a ten minute bus ride to the Institute if we leave in approximately two minutes. That will give us a good thirty minutes to set up before your employees arrive.”</p><p>            “Alright, thank you, Ivy. We’ll leave right now, then.” Jon smiled, and Ivy nodded.</p><p>            Jon grabbed his coat, pulling his own hair back into a respectable bun as Ivy told the rest of the Crew.</p><p>            “Now, remember, before we leave—” Jon started.       </p><p>            Ashes interjected. “Don’t talk to you, don’t shoot anyone—” multiple groans filled the air at this comment, but Ashes continued, flicking a lighter on and off as they spoke. “And Jon will sign at us if he needs anything. Yes?” They raised their eyebrows at Jon, their expression unreadable.</p><p>            “Uh. Yes, thank you, Ashes,” Jon said, floundering slightly.</p><p>            Ashes’s face broke into a grin as they enveloped Jon in a hug. Jon let out a squeak in surprise, but melted into the touch. The rest of the Crew quickly joined in—surprise group hugs were something Jon loved most about the Crew, and frankly one of the things that had been the most of a shock when talking to people that weren’t immortal space pirates.</p><p>            Casual touch was one of the major ways the Crew showed affection (easier than verbalizing it, and although Jon knew he wasn’t really one to talk, he knew that his Crew was an emotionally constipated bunch). This had led to some awkward situations when middle school-age Jon would put a casual hand on someone’s shoulder while they were talking, or start playing with their hair. Jon had learned rather quickly to overcompensate for this, even getting rigid himself when people who weren’t his Crew touched him.</p><p>            “Aw, our little Jonny’s growing up,” Gunpowder said, pulling away.</p><p>            “I Think He’s Doing A Jolly Good Job Of It, The Old Chap!” The Toy Soldier grinned, patting Jon resolutely on the head.</p><p>            Jon grinned. “Thank you, TS. That’s very—”</p><p>            “Okay, enough with the sap, Jonny-kid, we’re gonna be late if ya don’t go now,” D’ville interrupted, hopping on one foot to the next. “Ya got your bag?”</p><p>            Jon nodded, patting it absently.</p><p>            “And the sensors are in there?” Raphaella interjected. “Remember to—”</p><p>            “Place them in the places you tell me to around the Archives, don’t worry, Raphaella, I know.” Jon smiled at her frantic expression, putting a quick hand on her shoulder before reaching for the door.</p><p>            “Ты знаешь, что они любят тебя, Да?” Nastya whispered to him in Cyberian outside the apartment, idly fiddling with the hard drive around her neck.  “они просто эмоционально репрессированных идиотов.”</p><p>            Jon smiled. “Да, не волнуйся.” He put his head on her shoulder, and Nastya absently rubbed circles into his back as they walked.</p><p>            The bus station was about a three minutes’ walk, Jon pretending not to notice his Crew bantering next to him as he stood next to an elderly woman. He did <em>try</em> to stifle his laughter when Marius tried psychoanalyzing the poor woman (leading to a shot between the eyes, courtesy of Brian), but he couldn’t really blame the strange look the woman gave him.</p><p>            The bus ride to the institute was more of the same—Jon put an earbud in to listen to his audiobook as the Crew play-argued (and real-shot with real-guns, but the sound of a gunshot was almost comforting to Jon now).</p><p>            And then they were at the Institute, being welcomed into the Archives by Rosie. The small headache that Jon always got when in the wretched place came back, but slightly weaker than normal. Small pleasures, but still.</p><p>            Jon took a deep breath as the rest of the Crew explored the Archives more fully. They were an honest-to-goodness mess, like two warring hurricanes had duked it out, leaving a terrifying amount of papers and boxes strewn with no discernable organization method.</p><p>            He absently fingered the small knife in his pocket idly listening to the other members of the Crew make comments on the disorganizing of the Archives. He checked his watch. Twenty-three minutes until, technically, he should start working.</p><p>            Jon drew a breath. “Okay,” he said to himself. “Okay.”</p><p>            This was going to take a while.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was literally just an excuse for me to write more mechs banter</p><p>Translations for the Cyberian *cough* Russian *cough*, courtesy of Google Translate:</p><p>-You do know they love you, yes? They’re just a bunch of emotionally repressed idiots.<br/>-Yes, don’t worry</p><p>-<br/>Comments and Kudos are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Unwanted invitations, and chairs-throwing contests</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon reflects on his first few weeks as Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, and receives an invitation.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay so I know I *said* Wednesday, but I am Bad At Self Restraint so here we are with another chapter! Also, just as a side note, thank you so much to everyone who’s commented on this fic!! The reception has been Amazing, and just know I read all the comments, even if I don’t respond. It’s mostly just because I don’t know how haha</p><p>Anyways, here’s the chapter!</p><p>Cws for: </p><p>-referenced alcohol consumption (past and in the future)<br/>-crappy bosses (It’s Elias, what do ya know)<br/>-implied tooth-eating (they’re not human teeth, but just in case)</p><p> </p><p>Please tell me if I’ve missed anything!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon was exceedingly neutral in his liking of his job as Head Archivist.</p><p>            His assistants were nice enough—he had liked Sasha and Tim already, and although he didn’t like the addition of a new person to what Jon had started to think of as their trio, Martin was pleasant to be around. Sure, he wasn’t exactly what one would have called an efficient worker, and Nastya had brought up the idea that he might not have been qualified for the job in the first place (which made much more sense than Jon was willing to give the idea), but Jon was willing to put that aside.</p><p>            He made nice tea (the tea itself was not up to The Toy Solder’s standards, but Jon liked the warmth of the mug in his hands, and that was half of the point of tea in the first place, really. And he could always add a few teeth if he was feeling up to it), which was good enough to balance out Martin’s less-than-perfect work.</p><p>            The Archives themselves were a mess, and Ivy predicted that it would take at least a good year of diligent work to get it to any semblance of organized. That was alright, too, Jon wasn’t planning on going anywhere for at least that long. Most of the ‘statements’ in the Archives were fun scary stories to read, even if they were bogus, and Jon was more than alright with transcribing them onto his computer.</p><p>            Now, the Real statements were something else entirely.</p><p>            It wasn’t that Jon hated them, they were just dreadfully tedious.</p><p>            When Elias had brought up the tape recorder idea, Jon was somewhat put off—wouldn’t it make more sense to just set those files aside, and only archive the ones that could actually be digitized?</p><p>            Apparently not, according to Elias.</p><p>            Which was all well and good—Raphaella had been raving about the statements that wouldn’t record ever since Jon’s laptop had fizzled out and refused to work after first trying to record one. But the sheer amount of time that went into recording one had Jon thinking that it was really more energy than it was worth.</p><p>            He brought this up with Elias, who waved him off with one of those searching looks that made Jon shudder. Those eyes were just too old for that face.</p><p>            “They most likely are,” Raphaella had remarked after he had voiced this. “The signatures I’m picking up suggest that his eyes are approximately two hundred years older than the rest of his face.”</p><p>            “Eugh,” Jon made a face, along with Marius and Gunpowder. Of course, they all made different faces, but Jon chose to interpret them all as the disgust that was on his own.</p><p>            “Wait,” Marius had interrupted at this point, “wouldn’t the eyes be all shriveled up and gross by then?”</p><p>            Raphaella had fixed him with a sympathetic look, if by sympathetic you meant <em>You’re an imbecile, and I only put up with you because you’re easy to rope into experiments</em>. “Fear,” she over-enunciated, like she was speaking to a five-year-old.</p><p>            Gunpowder had snickered at that. “Yeah, Marius, you idiot, <em>fear, obviously,” </em>he had said, voice dripping with, well, it had to be sarcasm, because Raphaella had shot him immediately afterward.</p><p>            Oh yes, and Jon’s boss was a conduit for an eldritch entity that was beyond mortal comprehension, and the entire Magnus Archives was a power converter to feed that same entity.</p><p>            That was also probably important.</p><p>            Jon <em>was </em>somewhat worried about that, but really it was hard to properly worry about something when Jon was actively trying to not think about it. He wasn’t even supposed to know about the whole “eldritch fear monstrosity conduit thing” anyway, and Elias could most likely see into his head, according to Raphaella, so Jon busied himself with other things.</p><p>            Like trying to mediate a growing argument between Gunpowder and Ashes.</p><p>            Jon <em>really </em>didn’t know (and probably didn’t want to know) what started it, but Gunpowder and Ashes were now yelling and throwing chairs (or, well, the strange half-chairs they pulled <em>from </em>the regular chairs) at each other, which was making it <em>extraordinarily </em>difficult to concentrate.</p><p>            “Hey, Jon, is now a good time?”</p><p>            And, of course, Martin <em>had </em>to show up right then. Jon repressed a groan, forcing his face into some semblance of a professional look. “Of course, Martin,” he said, like a chair hadn’t just gone through Martin’s torso. “What is it?”</p><p>            Martin smiled, rubbing his neck with one hand, while other held what looked to be tea, in a novelty mug with a cat on it. “Well, I was just wondering—“</p><p>            “—I dunno, Ashes, why you gotta be so <em>hot-headed?” </em>Gunpowder taunted. Another chair (really, how many chairs <em>were</em> there in this office?) flew right through Martin’s head. Jon did his level best not to wince.</p><p><em>            “</em>Okay, that’s it, I’m burning this place to the ground,” Ashes responded with a flick of what Jon guessed was their lighter.</p><p>            Jon blinked at Martin, who was apparently still saying words. “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”He interrupted, signing a quick “Please make them stop” to any Crewmember who might have been watching him.</p><p>            Martin stopped mid-sentence, his silence punctuated by two gunshots and a quick “I gotcha, Jonny-kid.” Okay, D’ville had shot them both, Jon reasoned, that was good. It bought Jon enough time to have a quick conversation with Martin before they resuscitated and started fighting again. He signed a quick “Thank you” to D’ville before focusing back on Martin.</p><p>            “Oh! Sorry, I, or, well, we, that is—Tim and Sasha and I, were just wondering if, if—you’d like to go, to, maybe a—“ Jon waited as Martin fumbled, stopped himself, and took a breath, only very slightly fiddling with his shirt cuff under the desk.</p><p>            “Yes?” Jon prompted.</p><p>            “We were wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks with us,” Martin said to a now completely dumbfounded Jon. “For team morale boosting,” he quickly added on. “Tim read this article on how meeting up outside of work actually built—“</p><p>            “Yes, yes, I’m sure Tim found some <em>incredibly </em>interesting articles,” Jon interrupted dryly, pointedly ignoring his own excited stimming hands under the table.  No, he told himself. Bad Jon. Very unprofessional. God, he knew what he was like when he drank. He was barely able to keep from being, well, socially acceptable when he was sober—it was virtually impossible for him to maintain proper social etiquette when tipsy. “However, I’m afraid I must decline, as I have—“</p><p>            “Oh, come on, Jon!” This was Gunpowder, his words slightly muffled, as he was facedown on the floor. “Go get drunk with your friends!”</p><p>            “What he said!” Ashes agreed. “You really need to get out more, Jon. It’s not healthy.”</p><p>            Jon sighed heavily, biting back a retort about hypocrisy that they probably wouldn’t care about anyway. Now, if he didn’t go to this, this <em>team building exercise<span class="u">, </span></em>both of them would hound it over him for the rest of his life, and most likely afterwards as well.</p><p>            Oh, well. He supposed he could always order something non-alcoholic.</p><p>            He focused himself back into Martin’s awkward attempts to cajole him—really, he was quite cute when he got like that—and interrupted Martin yet again.</p><p>            “Very well. As it seems. This.” Jon felt his face contort into a grimace, “<em>team building exercise</em> has a positive influence on work ethic,” Jon remembered hearing that once, he thought—“Then it seems like a good idea that I join you all. Where are we meeting and at what time?”</p><p>            D’ville, Ashes, and Gunpowder all cheered. Jon resisted the urge to shoot them all.</p><p>            Martin brightened in an instant. “Oh! Here, I’ll text you the address—“ he set the tea on the desk—some sort of herbal mixture, judging off the color—and pulled out his phone.  Jon felt his own phone buzz a few seconds later, Martin looking up with what Jon guessed was some sort of shy happiness.</p><p>            “Thank you, Martin,” Jon said, giving him as professional a smile as he could muster, keeping it up until Martin closed the door behind him.</p><p>            “Okay, <em>now </em>can we keep fighting?” Gunpowder asked, an almost whiny tilt to his voice.</p><p>            “Oh, alright,” Jon grumbled, pulling the tea close and relishing the warmth that radiated from it. After a quick moment to think it over, he pulled a small bag out of his desk, opened it, and put some of the contents in the tea. They clinked together as they sunk to the bottom, a reassuring sound to Jon, who sighed.</p><p>            Today was an incisor kind of day.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I googled it and apparently teeth are digestible! (Do not take this as me telling you to eat teeth. Pleaassseee do not eat teeth. I write fanfiction, which should put you off of taking anything I say seriously. Teeth are not good for the eatings.</p><p>Comments and Kudo’s are always appreciated, as are critiques!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Arson (but fake)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon nurses a headache, and debates with Nastya.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is one of the last sitting around dialogue chapters for a while, enjoy it while it lasts....;)</p><p>Also—all of your comments make my day, thank you so much to everyone who takes time out of their day to comment!! Even if I don’t respond, I read them all :D</p><p>Cws for:<br/>-fire<br/>-slight paranoia<br/>-vague allusions to childhood trauma</p><p>please tell me if I’ve missed anything!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>             <br/>
            Jon had forgotten how much he <em>hated</em> social gatherings until he had gone out to drinks with the rest of the archives staff. It was awkward, and stuffy, and much too loud for Jon. He had been all too aware of the Crew hanging back at a ‘reasonable’ distance, where they could eavesdrop without Jon thinking they were listening in.</p><p>            Frankly, and although Jon loved them, his Crew was not sneaky in the slightest, and the stage-whispered “Oh, I’m So Glad Little-Jonny Has Some Friends Now!” didn’t exactly bolster Jon’s confidence. The plastered smiles and stilted icebreaker questions given, asked and answered by Tim, Sasha and Martin didn’t go much better, especially with D’ville muttering in the back about how little murdering there was going on.</p><p>            “This isn’t how friendships are <em>made,” </em>he whispered (or, at least tried to whisper, he was actually quite loud) to Nastya when Sasha went into a slightly disturbing rant about internet safety.</p><p>            Jon had left about a half an hour into the whole event (twenty-nine minutes longer than he would have liked), making excuses about having other business to attend to while Gunpowder and Ashes booed at him from across the pub.</p><p>            Really, it could have been worse, all things considered. Tim, Sasha, and Martin had all looked disappointed, but understanding, and the night had ended watching some old black and white noir film on the couch with his Crew, which was always a good way to end a night.</p><p>            But he definitely wasn’t looking forward to going back to work on Monday—there was no doubt going to be plenty of awkward tension directed at him for leaving early, and Gunpowder and Ashes had decided to resume their fight at the Institute to give time for Jon to rest, which was, admittedly, uncharacteristically conscientious of them. All Jon could think about, however, was how bad his headache was going to be come Monday.</p><p>            There were only so many gunshot sound effects to the head one could take before going medically insane.</p><p>            The weekend passed quickly (much too quickly, in Jon’s opinion, the last recesses of headache had just left his mind at seven o’clock that Sunday, just enough time without one to make the slow onslaught of the thing just that more annoying).</p><p>            Three hours into the day, and Jon’s headache was getting worse.</p><p>             This one was familiar, at least—a feeling not unlike someone grabbing his head with a hand made of screwdrivers.  It was the one most often gotten after staring too long at a statement without reading it, or when he recorded one that didn’t feel right. This time, he was trying to choose between statements to record first, and the headache came on full force, like it had just remembered it was supposed to be doing something.</p><p>            He groaned quietly, putting his head in his hands. The papers in front of him rustled expectantly. Jon glared at them.</p><p>            “Jon, Old Chap, Are You Feeling Quite Alright?” The Toy Soldier peered over his shoulder, its jovial tone carrying a concerned lilt.</p><p>            Jon looked up, shifting to face it. He nodded, putting a hand to his forehead. “Yes, thank you, TS, I’m just …” a jolt of sharp pain streaked its way through the front of Jon’s head, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Headache.”</p><p>            The Toy Soldier brightened immediately. “Oh! Well, Did You Know, Tea Is The Best Solution For A Headache!”</p><p>            Jon gave The Toy Soldier a weak smile. The Toy Soldier’s idea of ‘tea’ was something that Jon had learned early on that was only sometimes actually edible—although, Jon had to admit, he <em>did </em>think teeth (especially molars) were a pleasant addition to a nice herbal tea, but that preference was often met with severe disgust and/or concern.</p><p>            He’d actually quite like a cup of tea—now that The Toy Solder brought it up, he hadn’t actually drank anything since yesterday. Hm. That might be part of the reason he had a headache in the first place. Maybe it didn’t actually have anything to do with the statements at all.</p><p>            “Thank you, TS, that’s a very good idea.” Jon stood to get up, but a wave of nausea decided to meet him as soon as he tried to get his legs to work.</p><p>            Well.</p><p>            This was not good.</p><p>            “Woah, There, Old Chap!” The Toy Soldier’s grin was fading quickly. “Engineer Nastya? Engineer Nastya! I Am In Need Of Assistance!”</p><p>            “Yes, Toy Soldier?” Nastya looked up from the flash drive, her glasses slightly skewed. Her eyes trained on Jon’s slumped frame and she was up in a second. “Jon!”</p><p>            “Yes, yes, I’m alright, just a little—” Jon waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Out of sorts.”</p><p>            Nastya made a sound that was almost a growl. “Have you been taking self-care tips from Jonny again? I swear, I am going to—“</p><p>            Jon waved her off. “No, no, I…I just feel very—” he swallowed, “—faint, all of a sudden.”</p><p>            “He Needs Tea!” The Toy Soldier interjected, wringing its hands. “But I Can’t Go Get Any, And Little-Jonny Can’t Go Up And Get Any—”</p><p>            “It’s alright, Toy Soldier.” Nastya glanced out of the office window, where Jon knew Gunpowder and Ashes had come to a truce, and were now ‘tormenting’ Tim, Sasha, and Martin (if one could call it that—they weren’t actually doing any damage, as the archival assistants couldn’t actually see them in the first place) by setting statements on fire (again, not actual statements, but the strange half-replicas did enough for Jon to be able to smell the smoke).</p><p>            “But Without The Tea—”</p><p>            “He’ll be alright without the tea,” Nastya said, slightly firmer this time.</p><p>            “But—”</p><p>            “Toy Soldier!” Nastya said. The Toy Soldier stood straight, saluting. Nastya’s tone softened. “Could you please go and find Raphaella for me ?”</p><p>            The Toy Soldier nodded fretfully, Jon giving it (what he hoped was) a reassuring grin. It turned on its heel and walked right through the closed door.           </p><p>            “Jon, when did your headache start?” Nastya asked, switching to Cyberian now that they were alone.</p><p>            Jon gave a half shrug in response, responding in the same language. “I…well, it’s always <em>there </em>when we’re here<em>, </em>but—” he swallowed—“It got quite worse when I tried to pick between these two statements.” He gestured to the pages in front of them.</p><p>            Nastya raised an eyebrow at the papers. “How so?”</p><p>            Jon took a shaky breath—his head was now almost pounding—it was getting harder to think by the second. “I..well, when I try to, to <em>pick </em>one to read—it’s, well, one of them, this one,” he picked up one file, showing it to Nastya, “Statement of Kathryn Hughes, regarding her brother, it just seems. Wrong.”</p><p>            “Wrong how?” Nastya pressed.</p><p>            “Wrong like…like putting a bandage on a cut that doesn’t exist?” Jon sighed. “But. Worse than that. Like getting a liver transplant when one’s liver is completely fine.”</p><p>            Nastya nodded slowly. “Okay. And the other?”</p><p>            Jon shuddered involuntarily. “That one…Statement of Carlos Vittery regarding arachnophobia and its manifestations.” Upon seeing the look on Nastya’s face, he continued. “But..no, I’ve read spider ones before, it’s just. This one’s different. It feels like it’s ca—” he swallowed. “Like it’s calling me.”</p><p>            Nastya blinked. “Well, why don’t you just not read them? Pick something else?”</p><p>            Jon shook his head. “Hence the headache. I think…” Jon gave a breathless laugh. “I think Something’s trying to get me to choose.”</p><p>            “Something? Like what?” Jon knew Nastya’s Worried face very well by this point. This was it.</p><p>            “Most likely the same thing that has turned on the tape recorder under the desk,” Raphaella interjected in English, striding in through the closed door with the Toy Soldier (looking very pleased with itself) right behind her.</p><p>            Jon blinked in surprise, switching languages. “What?” He checked under the desk, ignoring the wave of nausea that swept over him. Sure enough, there was a tape recorder, whirring away like anything. He clicked it off.</p><p>            “At least, that’s my current hypothesis,” Raphaella continued, stooping to take a look at the statements in question. “Read this one,” she announced, peering at the Vittery statement. “You’ll feel better.”</p><p>            “The Vittery statement?” Jon asked, almost incredulously. “But—”</p><p>            “Oh, most definitely some sort of terror-inducing being is trying to compel you to read it, but I’ll be able to get good readings on you before and after the statement!” Raphaella grinned. “And your headache will go away, which is a plus!”</p><p>            “I…you’re sure?” Jon deliberated this, trying to tune out the rather prominent smell of smoke that he knew only he and the Crew would be able to smell.</p><p>            Raphaella nodded absently. She was currently poking at the tape recorder play back the conversation Jon had just had with Nastya—as far as Jon knew, Raphaella could also speak Cyberian, however she wasn’t fluent like Nastya was. “Mhm. Judging from the tape you just unknowingly recorded, it seems that <em>some </em>thing is focusing very intently on your statements.”</p><p>            “Well, I do use them to record, should I stop? Is an eldritch monstrosity going to jump right out of the paper?” Jon was only half joking at this point.</p><p>            Raphaella laughed at that, a sound that was not unlike the sort of cackle you heard from mad scientists in old sci-fi movies. “Oh, no, of course you should keep going!” She went back to tinkering with the tape recorder, pushing the play and pause button so quickly that she was, if anything, bolstering Jon’s headache.</p><p>            Jon waited for her to respond.</p><p>            “Well?” he finally asked, after the silence had stretched about as thin as Jon could take it.</p><p>            Raphaella looked up. “Well what?” She was now rewinding the tape, presumably to play with the pause button some more.      </p><p>            “Well, what’s listening in on the statements, then?”</p><p>            Raphaella stopped at this, tilting her head at Nastya. “Didn’t we tell him?” she asked in Cyberian.</p><p>            Jon took a breath, giving Nastya a questioning look. She shrugged noncommittally. “I thought it was implied,” she replied, her hand around the flash drive once again.</p><p>            “<em>What </em>was implied?!” Jon burst, the sentence a blend of both Cyberian and English. “What, exactly, concerning the statements that I <em>have been reading for the past three months </em>do I not know about, that was apparently ‘implied’?!” he put the words in air quotes, whipping his head around to stare at both Raphaella and Nastya in the same field of vision.</p><p>            “Sorry, what?”</p><p>            Oh, for the love of—</p><p>            “Hello, Tim!” Jon quickly moved around to face the man, his face contorting into a semblance of a smile. “What brings you here? To my desk? At this moment?”</p><p>            <em>Oh, Lord.</em></p><p>           Tim (not Gunpowder, although <em>he </em>was right on the assistant’s heels with Ashes, making a sound that Jon would almost call a giggle, if it had come from any other person) blinked. “Just wanted to know if you smelled that smoke?”</p><p>            Jon inclined his head and creased his eyebrows. The overpowering smell of smoke, wafting in from the archives, made his nose twitch slightly, but he shook his head. “No, can’t say that I have,” Jon said, pushing as much detached concern into the sentence as he could muster. “Why?”</p><p>            Tim shrugged, eyeing Jon with that Look. “Martin and Sash and I all thought we smelled it—it was faint, though, so—”</p><p>            “I haven’t smelled anything, no need to worry, and I’m sure everything is completely alright,” Jon said far too quickly, inwardly cringing.</p><p>            Tim stared at him, tilting his head. “You alright, boss?” he finally asked.</p><p>            Jon nodded, glancing quickly at Raphaella, who was still playing with the tape recorder with dissonant results. The Toy Soldier had now joined her, putting the tape recorder next to its ear and shaking it. “Yes, don’t worry about me, I’m completely alright. If you’re worried about the smoke—” Ashes gave a thumbs up over Tim’s head. Jon cleared his throat. “If you’re worried about it, I can check with Elias about it.”</p><p>            “Elias actually told me to come to you?” Tim explained. “Not exactly sure what for, he wouldn’t explain.”</p><p>            Jon glanced at Nastya, who shrugged. “That’s conduits for eldritch fear for you,” she said. “Most likely trying to get a cheap scare out of him knowing we,” she gestured vaguely to herself, Raphaella, and the Toy Soldier. “exist.”</p><p>            “I doubt your boss knows that we know that he knows that we exist,” Raphaella interjected. “And that faint smell of smoke that Stoker and the rest are smelling are definite evidence that our presence is getting stronger.”</p><p>            “Oh, that is…I don’t know either, Tim,” Jon said, the sudden onslaught of new information making his head pound even harder. “I don’t smell anything, however, so we’re probably fine,” Jon smiled as reassuringly as he could with Raphaella now taking apart the tape recorder, which was also still under the desk.</p><p>            Jon reached into his desk (his hands were really shaking now), pulling out the yellow notebook. He scribbled a quick message to Nastya (in Cyberian, just in case Tim was looking over his shoulder) stating that they would <em>talk about this later. </em></p><p>            “Whatcha got there, bossman?” Tim peered over his shoulder at the notebook, the hastily scrawled Cyberian making Nastya tut.</p><p>            “You need to work on your handwriting,” she commented. Jon resolutely ignored her.</p><p>            “Oh, is that Russian?” Tim asked. “Didn’t know you were bilingual, boss!” He cracked a grin, batting Jon lightly on the shoulder.</p><p>            Jon resisted the urge to correct him, that no, it was <em>Cyberian, </em>memories rushing back with arguments with primary school teachers about the exact same topic. Instead, he managed a tight-lipped smile. “Polyglot, actually, I also know sign language,” he corrected, cringing inwardly at his own haughtiness. Georgie would be ashamed.</p><p>            Tim raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen you sign before, too. I myself,” He put a hand to his chest, “know Korean (and English, obviously).” He laughed lightly at that, for a reason Jon couldn’t even begin to fathom.</p><p>            Jon’s head tilted at this information. The overpowering smell of smoke made his nose twitch involuntarily. It was <em>really </em>getting on his nerves, and his headache was only getting worse. “That is…very good, Tim, now if you’ll excuse me, I have—”</p><p>            “Things to do, statements to record? Don’t worry boss, I’ll be in here again if the smoke doesn’t go away,” Tim said, winking and backing out the door (and right through Ashes and Gunpowder, who were still whispering to each other conspiratorially). “Bye!”</p><p>            “Ashes. Gunpowder. <em>Please </em>stop with the setting the Archives on fire.” Jon said, putting his head in his hands.</p><p>            Ashes blinked at Jon. “You feelin’ alright?” They asked.</p><p>            Jon let out an incredulous laugh at that. “Do I <em>look </em>it?!”</p><p>            Ashes raised an eyebrow. “No,” they said, concise as always.</p><p>            “Reading the statement will help!” Raphaella called from the corner, where she and The Toy Soldier were now dropping the tape recorder from various heights.</p><p>            “Barring the <em>eldritch monstrosities </em>that might come through the tape recorder!” Jon would have exclaimed this, but really his headache wasn’t doing him any favors, and it came out as more of a whine.</p><p>            Nastya looked at him peculiarly. “That is stupid, Jon. Nothing is going to come <em>out </em>of the tapes. Nothing will go horribly with only one recording. And it will make your headache go away, which I think you need right now.”</p><p>            Jon stared at her for a while. It was true that he felt like his head was about to implode, and he trusted his Crew with his wellbeing. They wouldn’t intentionally hurt him.</p><p>            Unintentionally, however, was another statement. His Crew was all immortal, whereas Jon was decidedly not, so it might have been that recording a tape would mortally injure him.</p><p>            No, Jon, he reprimanded himself. That was silly. He’d recorded plenty of statements before, and he hadn’t died yet. He trusted his Crew.</p><p>            “Alright then,” he finally said, grabbing the tape recorder from under the desk and gathering the statement. “This doesn’t mean we’re not going to talk about this later,” he warned.</p><p>            Nastya shrugged. “Okay.”</p><p>            Gunpowder sat on the ground and Ashes leaned against the door. The smell of smoke was abating, slightly (<em>finally)</em>. “You’re going to listen in?” Jon asked, really not caring at this point. Already he could feel the headache receding, and the ache to start recording was grabbing his attention away from anything else in the room.</p><p>            Ashes shrugged. “It’s a scary story, and a way to pass the time, so why not?”</p><p>            Jon couldn’t find any flaws with this logic.</p><p>            “Alright,” Jon conceded, and he sat up, clearing his throat.</p><p><br/>
            “Statement of Carlos Vittery…”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Toy Soldier, eating a tape recorder: I don’t know what this is, but it’s probably science!</p><p>Comments, kudos, and critiques are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Works.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin reflects on his relationship with his boss, and acquires a new phobia.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic is now longer than anything I have ever written! </p><p> </p><p>I had to split this chapter up into two parts (as it was getting waY to long) so if it seems a bit cut short at the end, that’s why</p><p>cws form<br/>-heavy projection (on Tim’s part)<br/>-trypophobia (canon typical Jane Prentiss content)<br/>-canon typical worms<br/>-guns<br/>-bad gun procedure<br/>-panic attacks<br/>-vague allusions to self-harm (unintended and vague, but it’s there)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin was very good at not getting in the way.</p><p>            It was something drilled into him at a very early age, by his mother, as these things often are. It was pure instinct at this point, to turn away when someone was having a bad day, to anticipate what someone was about to do and make sure he didn’t bother them while they were doing it.</p><p>            Sometimes he thought that it was his only useful skill, really.</p><p>            This didn’t mean he wasn’t curious, not by a long shot—in his childhood, he had quickly found alternate ways of figuring things out, realizing early on that playing the innocent child card (which later turned into the loveable klutz card) was a surefire way to gain both sympathy and information.</p><p>            None of this helped, however, when it came to Jon.</p><p>            Martin would be the first to admit that his boss was Weird, capital ‘W’. But everyone apparently already knew that, and Sasha and Tim seemed to inexplicably like him anyway, even though he was standoffish and prickly at the best of times, and downright rude at the worst. Whenever Martin would bring it up with either of the other two archival assistants, they would share a laugh (and a knowing glance, when they thought Martin wasn’t looking) and tell him to talk to Jon about it if he was worried.</p><p>            “But you don’t understand,” Martin would say, “He has <em>dead grasshoppers! On his desk! </em>He <em>ate one </em>right in front of me!<em>” </em></p><p><em>            “</em>You know, they’re actually a delicacy in Mexico?” Tim remarked.</p><p>Martin had floundered at that. “But—grasshoppers! On his desk! Just…just lined up there!”</p><p>Sasha laughed at that particular outburst, sharing a story of her own. “That’s not even the worst he’s done—have you found out about the teeth yet?”</p><p>            Martin did <em>not </em>want to find out about the teeth, thank you very much.</p><p>            When Jon decided to call him into his office, Martin didn’t know what he was expecting. Something strange, probably. A complaint about his work ethic, definitely.</p><p>            He wasn’t expecting to walk into a heated conversation in what sounded to be in some sort of Russian. Jon’s glasses were skewed halfway off his face, and his hair was loose, outside its regular professional bun. He was now mumbling something into his hands, in a voice vastly different than the pompous academic one Martin was used to.</p><p>            “Sorry, am I interrupting something?” Martin asked, hesitantly, and Jon’s eyes flicked up to his own. He sat up immediately, adjusting his glasses and clasping his hands together on the desk.</p><p>            “Hello, Martin, yes, what is it? You know I am incredibly busy.” Jon’s now contemptuous tone made Martin bristle, but he pushed that particular feeling down in favor of apologetic concern.</p><p>            “You…you called me in, Jon,” Martin replied, somewhat confused. Jon blinked, and sighed heavily after a second’s thought.</p><p>            “Yes. Yes, I suppose I did, Martin.” Jon looked behind him, hiding a quick scowl that Martin, of course, picked up on. Martin’s smile pinched into a thin line. The <em>nerve. </em>“Could you please look into statement #0150409?”</p><p>            Martin paused. “Yeah, no problem, and who’s statement would be?”</p><p>            Jon scribbled something in that little notebook that Martin usually noticed near him, ripping a page out and slamming it somewhat violently on his desk. His face contorted into something like a smile as he turned back to look at Martin. “Sorry, please repeat that,” he said.</p><p>            Martin blinked. “Oh! Yeah, of course, just, who did that statement? Their name?” Martin was well aware that his tone was getting somewhat testy, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care.</p><p>            “Uh, one Carlos Vittery, concerning,” Martin could see Jon suppress a shiver, “arachnophobia and its manifestations. I trust that even you could follow up on this one, as it is most obviously a fake.”</p><p>            Okay, Martin was proper upset now. “Yeah, Jon, don’t worry. I can do that, no problem,” he said, smiling as wide as he could bring himself to. Jon’s almost confused look sent something bitter through his mind.</p><p>            <em>Why, God, did he have to be so cute when flustered?</em></p><p>            Jon cleared his throat. “Good. Now, if you don’t mind,” he trailed off, biting his lip. He stared quite pointedly at the door.</p><p>            Martin did his very best not to slam it behind him. Behind it, he could hear Jon whispering in that other language again (Martin was pretty sure it was Russian at this point).</p><p>            “Ey, Marto!”</p><p>            Martin looked around to face Tim, who was leaning against his desk with the practiced ease of someone who had spent many hours socializing at that very spot. “What’cha listening in on Jon for? Hoping to catch a spooky story?” he made a face, obviously trying to convey some sort of humor. It didn’t take, but Martin smiled anyway.</p><p>            “No, actually, Jon called me in. Got a new statement to work on, you know,” Martin shrugged. “Some uncalled for comments about my work ethic, nothing too out of the ordinary.” He laughed dryly, the sound coming out more bitter than he was expecting. “You know, sometimes I wish that he would, you know, maybe <em>assume I know what I’m doing, </em>once in a while?</p><p>            Tim’s smile fell, slightly, and he stared at Martin.</p><p>            “What is it, Tim?” Martin asked, leftover nerves making him snap.</p><p>            Tim looked at him, something unreadable changing his face from its usual easy grin. “Look, Martin. I know you haven’t known Jon very long, and I know he’s hard to understand.”</p><p>            Oh, god, Martin had walked right into a lecture, hadn’t he.</p><p>            “Understatement of the year,” Martin scoffed as Tim fixed him with an intense state.</p><p>            “And really, this isn’t my place to tell you. But Jon, he’s,” Tim sighed. “He’s got some things. And so do I, so does everyone,” he added quickly at the look on Martin’s face. “But he’s…Martin, you’ve seen him. He can barely stay afloat by himself—have you ever seen speak to anyone besides us?”</p><p>            Martin thought about this. No, he hadn’t. As a matter of fact, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Jon interact with anyone outside of work, and the only time <em>he </em>had seen him out of work was at that horribly awkward pub meeting the past week. “No,” he admitted.</p><p>            Tim grimaced, but Martin knew the look wasn’t directed at him. “Yeah, exactly.” A fierce protectiveness hardened Tim’s eyes as he spoke. “And I like you, Martin, and Jon likes you, and I know he’s weird about it.”</p><p>            Martin didn’t scoff at this. The look in Tim’s eyes was fierce, the protective flare of heat Martin knew personally from months of hearing him talk about people he cared about. Martin nodded instead, trying to look as understanding as he was capable of.</p><p>            Tim looked at him approvingly. “I’ll talk to him about this. And he’ll listen—I don’t mean to try to apologize for him, or anything, but I doubt he actually meant to anger you.” He sighed, his face something other than that intense stare for a millisecond—nostalgia, maybe? Love?—Martin blinked, and it was gone.</p><p>            Tim gave a short laugh, more breath than anything. “Did you know I almost started going by a nickname?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, his gaze averted from Martin’s.</p><p>            “What?” This was not where Martin thought the conversation was going to go.</p><p>            Tim exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah. When I first met him. He just looked so…so shocked when I introduced myself. Like I had just punched him in the gut.” He pursed his lips. “’Tim.’ It’s a common name, you know. I thought it might have, like, stirred up some memories for him or <em>something, </em>the way he reacted to it.” He shook his head in reminiscence. Something twinged in Martin’s gut at the look. “It was only when Sasha intervened, and Jon told me that it was just the name of someone else that he knew that I realized that he just didn’t <em>know </em>how to react.” He looked up at Martin, that strange faraway look in his eyes. “He didn’t know.”</p><p>            Martin had the feeling that he had accidentally stumbled into something that concerned neither Martin nor Jon. He smiled, politely, and as reassuringly as he could make the look. Tim smiled at him, this one more worn and somewhat weary.</p><p>            “I’ll...I’ll talk to him, okay Marto?” Tim said, uncrossing his arms. “Just…keep that in mind.”</p><p>            “Okay, Tim.” Martin smiled, projecting as much warm sympathy into the look as he could.</p><p>            Tim looked at him appraisingly before calling to Sasha, and the conversation shifted to drinks after work and lighter topics.</p><p>            Martin didn’t forget—he didn’t do that often, and the information was something to file away under Things That Would be Useful in Context.</p><p>            And so he looked into the statement without further complaint, and ended up in the basement of the flat complex of one Carlos Vittery, where Martin learned something very important about himself.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>            Quite a bit amount of time later…</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>            Martin Blackwood <em>hated </em>worms.</p><p>            He doubted that he had ever hated anything has much as he now hated worms, he reflected, stuffing yet another towel under the door to protect against Jane Prentiss (or, at least, he assumed it was Jane Prentiss, it didn’t make much sense if it <em>wasn’t </em>Jane Prentiss, or maybe—he cut himself off).</p><p>            The knocking came again, slow and deliberate, from the thing that might have once been Jane Prentiss. Martin barely suppressed a whimper as he reached for the industrial duct tape again, ripping off a strand and plastering it to the doorframe, where more pieces were fraying at the edges.</p><p>            Martin didn’t know how much longer he could stand this.</p><p>            He took a deep breath, trying as hard as he could to quell the rising terror in his chest.</p><p>            It had been seven days like this. A whole <em>week. </em></p><p>            Martin would have thought he was going insane, if it weren’t for this little ritual, of redoing the tape. Every hour, as soon as the hand on the little analog clock on the wall reached the twelve, he would grab the tape, restrain his mounting terror, and go to the door.</p><p>            It sounded stupid, even to his own ears, but it grounded him.               </p><p>            He let himself lean against the opposite wall, tape gripped with white knuckles in both hands. His breathing was still ragged, and Martin <em>hated </em>himself for it. He had to get a grip. Today was just another day. He could get through it, just like he had gotten through yesterday, and the day before.</p><p>            Yeah. Today. What would he do today?</p><p>            His mind flicked to the book on his bed—a well worn copy of Keats poems, basically memorized at this point. Maybe he’d re-read that again today. Maybe he’d even try writing some poetry of his own, afterwards, if he could ever get that picture of wriggling, squirming white maggots out of his skull—</p><p>            Martin slapped himself, the sound of it snapping him out of his spiral. He wasn’t dead yet, and the tape was still fresh. He was alright.</p><p>             Well, save for the worm infested human(?) outside his apartment that wanted to <em>eat </em>him <em>alive. </em>Other than that, he was completely fine. And, you know, the fact that he had eaten nothing but peaches for the past week. Was scurvy a thing he needed to worry about? Was he getting his necessary vitamin intake?</p><p>            <em>No, </em>Martin. Focus.</p><p>             But on <em>what? </em>The…that <em>thing </em>outside? The boredom that was making go out of his <em>mind </em>in here? Oh Christ, he was going to die, or, or, be hollowed out by <em>worms </em>(he <em>hated </em>worms), and he was going to die in this flat—</p><p>            “<em>Oh, this is </em>disgusting!”</p><p>Martin blinked. Wait. Was that…</p><p>            No. Couldn’t have been.</p><p>            “Yes, I know they’re not <em>actually worms, </em>Ivy, I apologize, just voicing my discontent!”</p><p>            It had to be. Martin recognized that worn pompousness, like tired academia personified, even through the door. He’d know it anywhere.</p><p>            That was the voice of Jonathan fucking Sims.</p><p>            “<em>What?” </em></p><p>            “What the <em>fuck is that Ivy!” </em>was followed by several gunshots (<em>gun</em>shots?! What in the <em>world </em>was happening?!), plus another resounding “<em>Fuck!” </em></p><p>Martin scrambled to his feet, the tape spool still gripped tightly in his hands. Another voice, the words indistinct and with a wry tilt. Martin didn’t know the owner of it, but before he could turn it over in his head, an altogether inhuman screech reverberated his eardrums.  </p><p>            “<em>Damnit, D’ville, </em>it didn’t <em>do anything! </em>She’s already full of holes!<em>” </em>There was Jon’s voice again—apparently not part of his imagination. A pause, then a barklike laugh. “Oh, goddamnit, these fucking <em>worms!”</em></p><p>“J-jon?!” Martin called, getting as close to the door as he dared. “Jon, is that you?!”</p><p>            A sickening squelch, and another screech before Jon (at least, Martin <em>thought </em>it was Jon? Was this just a really elaborate hallucination? He shook the thought away. Something to deal with later.) answered, muffled by the door. “Hello, Martin! Yes, it’s me! I…there are a Lot of worms here!” The man’s voice was verging on some sort of mania, and Martin could feel a twin hysteria bubble up in his chest.</p><p>            “Yeah, w-what about the lady! The—the, the Prentiss?”</p><p>            Another wail, presumably from said worm woman. Somewhere in the back of Martin’s brain, he wondered if the neighbors could hear all of the screaming.</p><p>            And then a terrible, ragged hum, like a chorus of squirming maggots. Martin heard another squelch, like grinding meat, and prepared for the worst. Jon was going to die (why was he even <em>here?!), </em>and Prentiss was going to get Martin next, and then…</p><p>            And then…</p><p>            It was quiet, save for Martin’s ragged breathing.</p><p>            “Well, I think that scared her away! Martin, I think it’s safe to come out!”</p><p>            The doorknob rattled. Martin’s heart seized.</p><p>            “Martin, could you unlock the door? I don’t think you’d like me to hack it apart with this axe (shut <em>up </em>Gunpowder), but I will if I have to!”</p><p>            “A—are you—are there people with you?” Martin called, inching closer to the door, the tape gripped like a weapon in his hands.</p><p>            A pause. “Noooo?” Jon drawled out, ending on an upturn. “Tim (no, not <em>you</em>)’s waiting in the car with Sasha, did you know that we have a company car? It’s actually quite nice,” Jon’s tone was leaps and bounds away from anything Martin had ever heard him. The disconcertment of it jarred him from his fear, and he swallowed. “The…Prentiss is gone, I think. Ran away,” Jon added, almost as an afterthought.</p><p>            “I…Jon, I’m opening the door, okay?” Martin called through the door, peeling away the tape from the doorframe. Slowly, terribly slowly, it came away, the sticky residue reminding Martin vaguely of the spiderwebs that had taken residence in his kitchen.</p><p>            Behind the door, Martin could hear Jon murmuring to someone, the agitated tones almost playful, as if conversing with someone right outside the door. Martin’s hand reached almost by itself to the doorknob, and he turned the cool metal with sweaty palms.</p><p>            And then the door was open, and Jonathan Sims’s fucking axe was the first thing to greet him.</p><p>            Martin let out a scream and swung the tape spool at Jon’s head. Jon toppled backward with a startled cry, dropping the axe onto a pile of worm corpses.</p><p>            “Shit!” Martin ran to Jon’s crumpled form, wringing his hands as his head spun. An almost comical expression of surprise had made its home on Jon’s face, the expression so pronounced that if it were on any other person, Martin would have thought that it was some shade of fake.</p><p>            “<em>Christ, </em>Jon, are you alright?!” Martin exclaimed, waving his hands in some emotion. Worm corpses riddled the floor, and they crunched underfoot in a way that made Martin’s stomach turn with nausea. “What do you have an axe for—<em>is that a gun?!”</em></p><p>           Jon blinked from his place on the ground, looking down at the pistol held loosely in his hands. His hair was pulled into a tight braid, and his eyes were shining with exertion. He was bleeding, but Martin couldn’t discern any individual cuts. “Oh. Yes, I believe so,” he said. “I would rather we not spend any longer here than we have to; I’m not sure whether Prentiss will be back or not. Would you pack?” He groaned as he stood, using a speechless Martin as a crutch as he pulled himself to his feet. “You throw quite a good left hook,” he remarked, gingerly touching the place where Martin had hit him.  </p><p>            Martin stared, gaping mouthed at Jon. “I…I—<em>Jon why do you have a gun?!” </em>Martin internally cringed at this—why was <em>that </em>the first thing his brain decided to comment on?</p><p>Jon tilted his head, looking at Martin like he was trying to decipher a particularly difficult jigsaw puzzle. “Emotional support,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Now, will you pack?”</p><p>            Martin nodded wordlessly, shock still replacing blood in his veins. “I-I..I’ll be right back,” he said,  walking in a sort of daze to the bag he had already packed the first day he was stuck in his flat, and repacked, and re-repacked, more times than he liked to count over the past week. His mind had quickly bypassed all panic responses and had ended resolutely in a wide-eyed stupor.</p><p>            He could vaguely hear Jon talking with someone in the other room—probably he was on the phone? Was he in the living room? Martin ought to have invited him anyway, so it was good that Jon had let himself in. But there <em>was </em>his ban on all weapons in the flat, and Jon had <em>two </em>that Martin knew of, so it might have been a bad idea, and—</p><p>            <em>God, </em>Jon had a gun! Why did Jon have a gun?!</p><p>            Martin drew a breath, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “This is actually insane.”</p><p>            Martin agreed with himself, and a wry chuckle bubbled up in his throat. Jonathan Sims was in his flat.</p><p>            <em>His </em>flat.</p><p>            In all the scenarios Martin had previously imagined where this happened, being saved from an insane worm woman with an axe was <em>not </em>something he had considered.</p><p>            The laugh that had taken residence in his throat turned slightly hysterical. Martin crouched, holding the backpack to his chest, the overwhelming fear and panic abating into something different, but Martin couldn’t place the exact emotion.</p><p>            He couldn’t, he couldn’t, this was—</p><p>            “Jon, come get your boyfriend, he’s freaking out!”</p><p>            Martin whipped his head up. “What?” he called. “Who was that?”</p><p>            Jon popped his head in, eyes tracking Martin immediately. He muttered something under his breath, and then spoke directly to Martin. “I apologize, I let myself in, I heard—”</p><p>            Martin stood, clutching his bag. “Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice creeping up an octave.</p><p>            Jon’s eyes widened in a recognition Martin hadn’t seen on him before. “No?” he said, then repeated—“No,” he said, regaining that pompous voice. “Now, if you’re packed?”</p><p>            Martin paused, setting the topic in the “We’re Going to Talk About This at Length Once We’re Out of Worm Territory” pile, then nodded. “You said…you said Tim and Sasha were outside?”</p><p>            Jon tilted his head. “Yes, in the company car. It’s quite nice, you know. Not what you would expect. Now if we’ll be going?” He gestured to the door, which was slightly ajar. Martin noticed with a cringe that both he and Jon had tracked worm corpses inside his flat.</p><p>            Something to worry about later.</p><p>            Jon picked up the axe again on the way out, and, after a pause, handed it to Martin. He accepted it somewhat blearily, giving Jon what he hoped was a properly confused look.</p><p>            “Why are you <em>here?!”</em></p><p>Jon looked back at him as he continued down the hall, shrugging. “Your text messages were off.”</p><p>            “<em>Off?!” </em>Martin exclaimed, still holding the axe and racing to keep up. “Off <em>how?!” </em></p><p>“We’ll talk about it more with Sasha and Tim—they’re probably about to come in themselves if we don’t get back there in a hurry.”</p><p>            Martin didn’t know how to respond to this. The silence stretched, and Martin’s mind crept back to the wriggling wet of the worms that ate Jane Prentiss from the inside out, and he could feel a squirming in his own skin, and the worms were going to get him—</p><p>            “Wh-where did you get the axe from?” Martin asked, shaking his head to get the recesses of burrowing worms out of his mind.</p><p>            Jon’s mouth twinged upward at this, fiddling with the pistol (Martin hoped to any deity that might have been listening that it wasn’t loaded). “You know, it’s actually remarkably easy to buy an axe in central London,” he said, his tone light and conversational. “I have a few more at the Archives, if you’d like to keep that one,” he gestured to the axe in Martin’s hands.</p><p>            Martin looked at the axe in his hands—he didn’t know much about weapons craftmanship, but this one was long, with a leather handle, and Martin kept his fingers well away from the double blades. “Oh! Thank…you?” He said, his voice ending on an upturn. “I…wait, you have more at the Archives?”</p><p>            Jon waved the gun in a dismissive gesture. “Some. We’ll talk more with Tim and Sasha,” he repeated.</p><p>            “Okay,” Martin said, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Okay.”</p><p>            They went down the stairs in silence, this new ground clear of any worm remnants. Martin let out a breath, loosening his grip on the axe.</p><p>            Oh.</p><p>            He was still carrying the axe.</p><p>            Martin…didn’t know how to feel about that.</p><p>            Jon led Martin to a sleek black car with tinted windows, which Martin took to be the ‘company car’, as Jon put it.</p><p>            “This is…wow, this is a very nice car,” Martin remarked as they approached.</p><p>            Jon nodded at this, placing the gun very gently into his own coat before opening the back car door for Martin. “Thank you, we stole it from Elias.”</p><p>            And Martin officially lost it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jon and the archives gang going to save Martin: let’s just steal our boss’s car, you know, just for good measure</p><p>Thank you everyone who commented and left kudos, you guys are the ones keeping this fic alive!!</p><p>Comments, kudos, and critiques are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Pasta.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and the archives staff have a long-awaited talk. Ivy has some thoughts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And so we are back at a regular schedule pace!</p><p> </p><p>Cws this chapter for:<br/>-flippant gun use<br/>-worms<br/>-mechs-typical death content<br/>-Elias-typical creepiness (mentioned)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan Sims was having a day.</p><p>            This in itself wasn’t abnormal—technically, Jon had a day <em>every </em>day<em>, </em>but this one was particularly eventful. Hijacking his boss’s car (or, well, telling Sasha to hijack the car), finding a holey woman filled with worms that sounded suspiciously like pasta when they squirmed, and realizing Martin had heard (could hear? Was it ongoing? Jon really wasn’t sure yet, and he hadn’t gotten around yet to asking Raphaella) Ashes weren’t usually things that happened on regular days.</p><p>            Although he did had to vehemently remind the Crew that him and Martin <em>weren’t </em>actually dating, or romantically involved at all.</p><p>            Other than that, today was going brilliantly.</p><p>            Martin had seemed shell-shocked, to say the least, so Jon tried to keep touch and speech to a minimum. Martin had stayed relatively silent, save for a few strange remarks and questions about his pistol that Jon chalked up to still being out of sorts.</p><p>            Really, an emotional support gun wasn’t all that strange. His Crew all had support weapons—it’d be strange if Jon <em>didn’t </em>have one.</p><p>            Now that Martin was in the car, and Tim and Sasha had finished with the <em>“oh, Martin, we were so worried”</em>s and the <em>“How are you? Hurt? Jon told us that there were worms—where did you get that axe from?” </em>s, they could get to the true meat of the conversation.</p><p>            Tim was in the front seat, of course, the only one of them legally able to drive, apparently. Sasha had taken the passenger’s seat, which was fine with Jon, who was sitting in the back. He was slightly cramped, with his Crew pressing in on both sides. Now that Martin had joined the arrangement, Jon was forced to get on Marius’s lap, which wasn’t exactly a <em>bad </em>thing, just slightly undignified.</p><p>            Oh, well. It wasn’t like the others could see him anyway.</p><p>            “Okay, so. First off. What the <em>hell </em>is a pasta worm?!” Tim asked, his voice just on the outer edge of panicked. Jon smiled at the reference to the quick text Jon had sent Tim when he had first encountered the worms.</p><p>            “The worms sound a little like pasta when they squelch,” Jon stated, with as much dignity as he could muster. He glanced at Martin, who was leaning somewhere between the edge of the seat and Ivy, who was seated on the edge of said seat.</p><p>            “Wait. Wait, there were <em>actual worms?!</em>” Tim asked, his voice raising ever so slightly in pitch.</p><p>            Jon blinked. “Well, yes. From Prentiss. Martin can corroborate my statement, if you don’t believe me.”</p><p>            Martin looked like he didn’t want to corroborate anything at the moment, or speak at all. He looked slightly sick to his stomach, now that Jon was thinking about it. Was it something he said?</p><p>            “Jon, what were you thinking?!” This came from Sasha; whose voice was still incredibly calm under the circumstances. “You knew there was a supernatural worm woman in Jon’s building, and you didn’t think to tell me or Tim?!”</p><p>            “That’s not fair!” Gunpowder gasped, Jon simultaneously saying, “Well, I didn’t know at the time,” in as dry a voice as he could muster.</p><p>            “Jinx,” Ashes said, not looking up from where they were clicking their lighter on and off repeatedly. Their half-lidded eyes gave the impression of boredom, so Jon decided not to comment. Ashes was <em>incredibly </em>volatile when bored, sometimes even more than Jonny “I-have-eaten-my-gun-on-a-dare-before” d’Ville.</p><p>            “But you still went in there unarmed, without any backup! Do you know how dangerous that is?!”</p><p>            Jon tilted his head. “Well, I had my gun on me, and I picked up an axe from the emergency fire system on the wall, so I don’t really see what your problem was. And Prentiss didn’t really seem to want me, just Martin. I was fine.”</p><p>            Jon saw Martin suppress a shudder in the corner of his eye. He should probably ask about that.</p><p>            “Wait, what did you say about a gun?!” Tim asked, the words ending on a frantic note.</p><p>            Martin cleared his throat, effectively cutting Tim off. Jon noticed a flush high on his cheeks. Wait, was that why he was acting strangely? Was Martin sick? Had the worms gotten to him before Jon had arrived? Was he terminally ill?</p><p>            “Okay. I don’t know what’s happening here,” Jon tuned in to Martin saying, his voice wavering just slightly enough to notice. “And so you three,” he gestured vaguely at the three of them, “are going to answer some of my questions?” He ended on an upturn, phrasing it as a question. He waited, and Jon stared at him until Nastya whispered that he was waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his words. Jon nodded, hastily. “So. Jon, first off. What did you mean when you said my texts were off?” the question was directed at him.</p><p>            “Actually, it was Sasha who first remarked on it,” Jon replied, resolutely ignoring the fact that Gunpowder was now playing with his hair, and even more resolutely ignoring the fact that Jon was leaning into the touch.</p><p>            Sasha gave Jon a Look. “Yeah, Martin, your texts usually sound different,” she said. “There were too many worm emojis for it to be yours.”</p><p>            “Yeah, Mr. No,-a-Cow-Is-A-Perfectly-Good-All-Situational-Emoji,” Tim said, cracking a grin that seemed just a little more <em>cracked </em>than <em>grin</em>. “And the texts weren’t <em>nearly </em>nice enough to be yours. Didn’t even remind us to hydrate or anything. Now, Jon here,” He tilted his head to indicate Jon, who startled slightly.  </p><p>            “Yes, Tim?” he asked, sitting up slightly straighter. Marius grumbled something about <em>‘telling someone before you reposition, ugh, now I’m on Jonny, great, now he’s shot me in the foot, no I can’t move, Jon’s in the way</em>’ which Jon pointedly ignored.</p><p>            Tim shrugged, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel behind him in a rhythmic pattern. “Just recounting your apparent heroic adventures of the day, don’t worry, boss.” Turning to Martin, Tim continued. “He was the one to bring up the fact that you might’ve been kidnapped, or something, so obviously we came to your rescue immediately—”</p><p>            “I believe your exact wording was ‘No, Jon, that’s insane, Martin’s probably just sick,’” Sasha interjected, raising an eyebrow at Tim.</p><p>            “Hey, we came anyway! To get you soup!” Tim raised a thermos of the stuff, reaching to pass it to Martin, who took it with shaking hands.</p><p>            “And…and the car? Why are we in our boss’s car?” Martin asked, holding the thermos tightly to his chest.</p><p>            Jon flicked his eyes to the tinted windows. Really, they were a bit much. “Tim, Sasha and I all take alternate forms of transportation—his was the only one in the lot,” he said. “Sasha could hijack it easily enough. Frankly, Elias has abysmal security<em>.</em>”</p><p>            Martin spluttered. “I—you—what?! Why in the world would you think that was a good idea?!”</p><p>            “It’d been a while since I’ve committed a good car theft, and don’t worry, we’ll bring it back once we get back to the institute,” Jon reassured, pretending not to notice the twin scoffs given by d’Ville and Sasha.</p><p>            “A—a <em>while? </em>You’ve committed car theft <em>before?!”</em></p><p>            Jon blinked owlishly. “Yes. Haven’t you?”</p><p>            “No!”</p><p>            Tim grinned, this one mostly genuine, holding his hand up for Jon to high-five. “Yeah, you go, crime boss!”</p><p>            “I go…what? Where, exactly?” Jon stared at the hand, his ears training instinctively on the violin that was now playing violently right next to him. Tim lowered his hand.</p><p>            Martin raised his own hand, and Jon got the impression this one he wasn’t intended to hit. “I…I haven’t had my phone on me? For a week now. I, uh, dropped it, when I first—Prentiss. ”</p><p>            “Well. That certainly explains some things,” Jon remarked, digging his own phone out of his pocket. “I assume that it was Prentiss who was sending these texts then,” he said.</p><p>            “Well. That certainly explains some things,” Jon remarked, digging his own phone out of his pocket. “I assume that it was Prentiss who was sending these texts then,” he said.</p><p>            Martin swallowed. “But…Okay. Okay, I can work with that. B-But Jon, that doesn’t explain why you brought a <em>gun?! To my flat?! For soup?!”</em></p><p>Jon sighed heavily. “I <em>told </em>you, for emotional support! Why is this so hard to believe?”</p><p>            “They’re just uncultured,” d’Ville muttered, patting Jon on the shoulder with a bloodied hand. Marius was reviving slowly next to him, a broken violin held loosely in his hands.</p><p>            “But They Seem To Be Right Good Friends! All Willing To Commit Felonies For Their Comrades!” The Toy Soldier butted in, a genuine grin on its face. Jon gave it a small smile in return.</p><p>            “<em>People don’t </em>have <em>emotional support guns!” </em>Martin bust out, Sasha and Tim simultaneously spluttering their own confusion. </p><p>            “Jon, please tell me that you did <em>not </em>bring a gun to Martin’s apartment!”</p><p>            Jon held up the pistol, eyebrows raised. Tim and Sasha both made identical sounds of surprise, which, of course, Gunpowder bust out laughing at.</p><p>            “It’s like they’ve never seen a gun in their life!” He wheezed. “Tim not knowing what a gun is!”</p><p>            Ivy let out a long-suffering sigh, looking up for her book to stare dryly at Gunpowder. “For the last time, Tim, just because you share the same name does not mean you’re the same person. It is statistically impossible.” Jon didn’t turn to look at her, still fielding comments about gun safety laws and proper licenses, but he signed a quick “listen to her” to Gunpowder. This, obviously, did nothing to shut his mouth, instead launching him into another spiel about how no one took him seriously.</p><p>            Jon itched to pull the trigger on his own gun. Ivy beat him to the punch, walloping Gunpowder in the head with a large tome she had, for some reason, been carrying around. Jon didn’t question it.</p><p>            “Are we going to move? We don’t know if Prentiss—” Jon saw Martin shudder at the name, noting not to say it in front of him again. “If <em>she </em>is going to be back. Any further questions can wait until we’re back at the Institute—”</p><p>            “No, not the institute, your boss is most certainly going to be there, and thus would have to explain about the car,” Raphaella cut in.</p><p>            Jon cut himself off. “Never mind, disregard the previous statement. We are going to abandon this car in a parking lot near the Institute and take the bus back to my flat.”</p><p>            “Nah, don’t go back to our place, we’ve got a buncha stabby things laying around and they didn’t seem to take too well to the gun,” d’Ville interrupted.</p><p>            Jon nodded in acknowledgement. “Tim, we’re going to your flat. I trust you know the way.”</p><p>            “What?! Why?”</p><p>            “You heard the man, start driving, Tim!” Sasha interjected, bumping Tim in the shoulder.</p><p>            “Yeah, start driving, Tim!” D’ville repeated, his voice high and mocking. Jon sighed heavily, leaning back against the now revived Marius, who patted him resolutely on the head.</p><p>            Tim snapped his head up. “Who said that.” He asked, his voice urgent and low.</p><p>            Jon felt a sort of panic bubble up in his chest. “Said what? I’m sure no one said anything, maybe just some sort of strange echo, you know, Elias’s car is very high tech, maybe some sort of feedback whine—”</p><p>            “Jon. Stop talking.” Nastya interrupted. “Now.”</p><p>            Sasha stared at Jon, giving him some sort of meaningful look that Jon couldn’t decipher. “Jon’s probably right. Who knows what kind of weird things this car has equipped? We should probably go now.” </p><p>            “Uh.” Martin said, with the look of someone who had just entered unknown territory in a conversation, and wanted very much to get out of it. “I…agree with Sasha?”</p><p>            Tim raised a suspicious eyebrow at Jon, who smiled as genuine a smile as he was able. “Alright,” he finally relented, turning his hands back to the steering wheel. “But we’re talking about this later.”</p><p>            Jon let out a sigh of relief.</p><p>            They drove.</p><p>            .</p><p>            Martin was shaking in the back of the car.</p><p>            This was to be expected. He <em>had</em> just had a relatively traumatic experience, and the probability that he <em>wouldn’t </em>be scarred by it was significantly higher than if he had come out mentally unscathed.</p><p>            But now he was leaning on Ivy, which really shouldn’t have been possible.</p><p>            Martin didn’t even seem to notice. It was most likely that he just took Ivy for an extension of the seat, as he wasn’t actively looking at her, and there was a miniscule chance that Martin was <em>expectin</em>g a person to be already seated in the place he was occupying. It made sense that he wouldn’t realize the warmth radiating from Ivy wasn’t a built-in seat heater from a stupidly expensive car, but an arguably human person.</p><p>            This was good. It would be much harder to collect data with Jon’s boyfriend panicking in front of her.</p><p>            No, she reprimanded herself. There was a less than one percent chance that they were dating currently, especially without any of the Mechanisms knowing, and although the probability that Martin was attracted to Jon was 87.2% higher than that, the likelihood that they would both get over both of their preexisting hangups dropped the chance of them actually going out to a mere 54%.</p><p>            Although, she calculated, it was 100 percent certain that they would be an objectively adorable couple.</p><p>            Martin shifted slightly, prompting Ivy to position herself into a more comfortable position. Martin and Jon both were attempting to carry a shaky conversation, obviously neither used to talking in a non-professional manner. Jon was still putting on that faux academic persona with little success, devolving into a stammering after only 8.02 seconds of conversation. It was honestly quite amusing to watch.</p><p>            Ivy forced herself back on the urgent track—Martin was not phasing through her, as most other people did when in contact with one of the Mechanisms. This was…not a problem, perhaps, but certainly something that needed more research. There had already been individual instances of this happening, but not three in such a short period. First with Martin hearing Ashes call for Martin, and then with Tim hearing Jonny’s attempt at mocking (that had really fallen short, in Ivy’s opinion). All in less than an hour.</p><p>            Ivy was pretty sure (74.5 %, to be exact) that Jon’s grandmother had had some sense of them, but just a feeling of a presence surrounding Jon, nothing more. The odd store clerk asking one of the Mechanisms if they were his guardian, and then forgetting that they had said anything a minute later did happen, on occasion, and Ivy had a working hypothesis that the only people who were able to see what Jon lovingly called his Crew were people who already had had encounters with the same type of thing that had sent them here in the first place.</p><p>            The Archives only seemed to bolster this idea. Elias rubbed Ivy the wrong way. His uncanny tendency to look directly at one of the Mechanisms (which specific one it was changed each time Jon went into his office, but those bright eyes, that shivering feeling of being watched when he looked at Ivy reminded her of someone that she really wished she could erase from her memory files) cemented the fact in Ivy’s mind that he could truly see them—slight dimensional differentiation aside.</p><p>            She would have to bring this up with Raphaella later.</p><p>            It really <em>was </em>fascinating.</p><p>            Martin and Jon had ended their conversation, apparently, as shown by the now revealed hushed whispering of Tim (Stoker, although Gunpowder was listening in) and Sasha in the front of the car. Martin leaned back into the regular seat, closing his eyes, Jon and Ivy making eye contact.</p><p>            Jon smiled, the tired upturn of his lips indicating that he necessitated rest. Ivy noted to remind him later to do so, and Nastya, in case he refused to listen to Ivy.</p><p>            The thought sent a little twinge of some emotion through her, some sour note that left her slightly on edge.</p><p>            Well. She would have to investigate that later.</p><p>            Ivy exhaled, the motion of it slightly jostling Martin onto Jon. He squeaked in surprise, the sound jolting Ivy out of her thoughts.</p><p>            They were almost at Tim’s house. Ivy had memorized the address ages ago, when Jon had first started interacting with him on a regular basis, and she remembered the roundabout that led to his flat complex like she had gone there herself.</p><p>            Okay, Martin was back on her shoulder.</p><p>            Ivy sighed.</p><p>            This was going to take some maneuvering.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jon’s text to Tim: 🪱 🪱🪱🪱🍝🍝🍝 😬😬☕️😃👍<br/>Tim: what<br/>-</p><p>Comments, Kudos, and Critiques are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. anger management issues, and socially awkward bosses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tim encounters some worms.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Man this chapter did NOT want to exist I’ll tell y’all </p><p> cws for: </p><p>-canon typical worm content<br/>please tell me if I’ve missed anything!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>            Tim dropped them off at his flat complex.</p><p>            Jon made his excuses, leaving hurriedly with a quick “I trust Martin can stay here for the time being,” and a swat at air. Sasha fixed up the couch for Martin, and Tim came back, slightly haggard-looking, and they watched some old noir movie from the ‘20s.</p><p>            Tim didn’t exactly know what to do, really. The…Worm Incident and subsequent impromptu sleepover seemed almost like it was another plane of reality than the one where he went to work, but it was still just a Tuesday.</p><p>            Which meant archival assistant-ing at the good ol’ Spooky Headquarters.</p><p>            Martin had, thankfully, relented to staying at Tim’s flat, so it was Sasha and Tim who took the bus up to Chelsea. Tim, of course, was <em>totally </em>going into work for the absolutely <em>delightful </em>experience of investigating statements, and was <em>not at all</em> interested in the fact that his boss had completely ditched them yesterday.</p><p>            No. That was fine. Tim was just a dedicated employee.</p><p>            And he was certainly not storming over to the institute like there was a rabid murder clown on his heels to tell Jon off for leaving them after Martin’s traumatic experience, Sasha not bothering to keep up with him.</p><p>            The Magnus Institute building was large, and the Victorian-era architecture was intricate and somewhat gaudy. Despite all this, however, it seemed to effortlessly blend in with the two apartment complexes it was sandwiched between.</p><p>            It was an impressive structure, but taking in the architecture wasn’t what made Tim stop outside the building.</p><p>            What made him do <em>that </em>were the worms.</p><p>            They were white, a bit like maggots, but some instinctive part of Tim recognized the wriggling shapes on the concrete instantly as worms. Another part, slightly more sophisticated, was grateful that Martin wasn’t coming into the institute today.         </p><p>            A third part of his brain, perhaps the most observant and talked over of the three, realized that the worms had followed Jon here.</p><p>            A worm wriggled its way near Tim’s foot. Tim stepped on it, the sickening squelch underfoot making his stomach turn.</p><p>            “Sash?” he asked, his voice just a touch above its normal octave. “Am I—”</p><p>            “Imagining worms?” Sasha finished, her tone matching Tim’s note for note. “If you are, then this is the most realistic mass hallucination I’ve seen in a while.” She craned her head to look at the entirety of the building, which was a feat easier said than done. Tim checked. Nope, no flying worms.</p><p>            Thank Mothman for that.</p><p>            “Okay, then.” Tim stepped on another worm, the revulsion giving way to a dark triumph as he crushed it underfoot. “Better check on our dear bossman, then, yeah? Make sure he hasn’t been eaten by worms or anything,” he made a face that he couldn’t decide was supposed to relay humor or distaste.</p><p>            Sasha looked at him, some expression on her face that Tim didn’t bother to decipher. “Yeah, Tim,” she said.</p><p>            Jon had, predictably enough, locked himself in his office. Tim could hear muffled conversation, slightly agitated, through the door, but who with Tim couldn’t think to guess.</p><p>            Tim knocked. “Ey, bossman?” he called, forcing levity into his tone. “You in there?”</p><p>            A pause. “Yes, Tim, what are you doing here? I thought you were taking the day off?” the tone, slightly upraised in confusion, made Tim almost bristle.</p><p>            “Uh, checking in on you, obviously,” Tim laughed, flexing his hands. “Can I come in?”</p><p>            A heavy sigh, muffled by the door. “Don’t tell me you brought Martin here too—”</p><p>            “Nope, Martin’s at my flat, where you <em>left him </em>last night—” Sasha put a warning hand on his arm.</p><p>            “Calm,” she mouthed, tilting her head to indicate the locked door.</p><p>            Tim pursed his lips into a thin line as Jon responded, his dry tone not at all similar to the almost unhinged way of speaking the day before. “Well, I’m perfectly alright, and if you’re insistent on taking the day to work, I’ve put some statements on your desk.”</p><p>            Tim’s anger simmered, and Sasha bit her lip. Tim opened his mouth to speak.</p><p>            “Alright, Jon,” Sasha interrupted. “We’ll get right on it.”</p><p>            Another pause, Tim angrily flailing his arms at Sasha. “What was that?!” he whisper shouted. “We can’t leave Martin back alone!”</p><p>            Sasha shrugged. “You can go back, if you want. We’re not leaving Jon here alone, though. And,” she continued, at the look on Tim’s face, “The solution isn’t to yell him into submission, because that’s never going to happen. Just. You know him,” Sasha raised her eyebrows at Tim, who sighed in defeat. Curse her and her making sense-ness. It was <em>really</em> getting on his nerves.</p><p>            “Fine, Sasha. Stay if you want. I’m going back to Martin,” Tim said, raising his hands in surrender.</p><p>            “Thank you, Tim,” Sasha said, and sat down at her desk.</p><p>            And then it was the next day.</p><p>            And then that day turned into the next, and then it was a week, and then a month of Martin staying in Tim’s flat, and casually awkward interactions with Jon, who had seemed to get, if possible, even <em>more </em>reclusive since the whole Worm Thing.</p><p>            Tim didn’t blame him for that. Of course he didn’t. To blame him would mean that he would have to allow himself to have any feelings whatsoever over the Thing, which wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.</p><p>            Sasha went to Tim’s flat with Martin after work each day, and when Martin finally came back into work, things started to go back to some sort of a semblance of normal.</p><p>            Well, save for the worms, which weighed heavily on Tim’s mind like waxy plastic.</p><p>            But the human mind can get acclimate to the strangest of situations, given time, and, as these things often do, life went on.</p><p>                   </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tim: for all your anger management problems based in underlying trauma needs!</p><p>don’t worry, we’ll hear from Jon and the mechs next chapter!</p><p>critiques, comments, and kudos are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Man door hand hook door</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha encounters a headache, and Jon comes to a decision.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So! before you read! There’ve been a couple of edits to the previous chapter to make it more narrative-flowey, and as a result some text here used to be in the previous chapter—you can skip past this if you’ve already read it!</p><p>cws for this chapter are:<br/>-canon typical worm content<br/>-mechs typical death content<br/>-dubious surgery<br/>-Jonny being predictably unpredictable</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>           “Sasha, are you sure you want to do this right now?”</p><p>            Sasha sat across from Jon, eyes steeled with determination. Her hair was unkempt, and she was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, which <em>certainly </em>broke the dress code. Jon decided to overlook this, at least for the time being, as her haggard appearance seemed to bolster her claim that she had…<em>encountered </em>something.</p><p>            Not that he wouldn’t talk to her about it privately later. The Archives still had <em>standards, </em>after all.</p><p>            “Oi, stop thinking about getting onto Sasha, I like her,” Gunpowder called from his place leaning on the opposite wall, cleaning a pistol.</p><p>            Jon swallowed, signing under his desk as Sasha spoke. “I didn’t even say anything,” he signed, a flare of indignance making him sit up straighter.</p><p>             “Your thoughts are easy to guess, Little-Jonny,” Nastya said, shrugging. “They are written all over your face.”</p><p>            “Nastya is correct,” Ivy added, not looking up from her book. “Using your face as a basis to tell what emotions you are having at any given moment yields a 73% success rate.”</p><p>            Jon pointedly ignored them, aside from shooting a well-meant glare at Nastya, who raised an eyebrow. “—and, frankly, I have some questions for you, too, Jon,” he tuned into Sasha saying.</p><p>            “What?”</p><p>            Sasha eyed Jon curiously. “I’d better say my statement first. It’ll make more sense.”</p><p>            “Ashes, Jonny, TS, Raphaella, Brian!” Nastya stood, yelling into Archive. “Sasha is giving a statement!”</p><p>            “What kinda weirdo’re we gonna have ta deal with now?” d’Ville groaned, swinging his six-gun haphazardly around in the air as he took a seat on the floor. “I wanna violence something that actually <em>does </em>something when I shoot it!”</p><p>            “Don’t be impatient, Jonny,” Ashes said, the telltale flick of their lighter signaling that they had entered the room.</p><p>            “It’s my <em>one defining personality trait, </em>Ashes,” d’Ville replied, ruffling Jon’s hair as he walked past. Jon sighed at the reference to what could count as Tim’s first catchphrase.</p><p>            “It’s not, actually, that would be sheer chaotic dumbassery,” Raphaella interjected. “Impatience comes fourth on the list.”</p><p>            “There’s a list?!” d’Ville said, his voice ranging several indignant octaves. “What are numbers two and three, then?”</p><p>            “Irrelevant.” Raphaella ducked a gun, evidently chucked from d’Ville in a fit of rage.</p><p>            “Toy Soldier, are you here?” Nastya asked, looking around the room. Immediately, Jon saw a sharp salute out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>            “Present And Accounted For, Engineer Nastya!” Jon heard The Toy Soldier say, its chipper voice helping to calm him. He could hear d’Ville grumbling something about throwing it out the airlock, and was suddenly very glad that they were nowhere near any spaceships.</p><p>            “And I’m here too, not that anyone seems to notice,” Marius stage-muttered, flopping dramatically onto the ground in front of the desk. Huh. Jon hadn’t noticed anything.</p><p>            “Nah, we know you’d show up,” Gunpowder drawled in a terrible rendition of d’Ville’s voice. “Despite our best prayers.”</p><p>            “That sounds a lot like an emotionally repressed way of showing affection, doesn’t it—” Marius’s ill-advised psychoanalysis broke off with a sharp gunshot to the head, courtesy of Gunpowder.</p><p>            Jon snapped his attention back to Sasha, who was staring at him intently. “Don’t you need to do the introduction?” she prompted.</p><p>            “Well, er, yes, apologies, I—” Jon shifted in his seat, cutting himself off. “Statement of Sasha James, regarding—”</p><p>            “Let’s just call it a ‘series of paranormal encounters,’ Sasha decided. “It’s easier.”</p><p>            “Practical. I like it,” Ashes approved with a flick of their lighter.</p><p>            “Alright then. Statement given direct from subject, the second of April, 2016. Statement begins.”</p><p>            Sasha inhaled sharply, and spoke.</p><p>.</p><p>The flowers were an unexpected bonus.</p><p>            Sasha didn’t know much about bouquets, but it seemed nice enough arrangement, and the clean white petals acted as a sort of shield between her and the being calling itself Michael. Its languid grin was in the process of sliding halfway off his face, almost like a melting ice cream cone  (no—simply a trick of the light, the man’s smile was completely normal, and the sun retreated behind a cloud, dispersing the illusion).</p><p>            Sasha swallowed, straightening. Think about the flowers, she commanded herself. The flowers are safe.</p><p>            “What are you?” she asked, her voice as level as she could force it to be.</p><p>            The thing called Michael raised an eyebrow (slightly too high on its face) and let out a bright laugh that made Sasha’s ears ring. “What an excellent question,” it tapped its fingers one by one on its cheek, thoughtfully. “How would a melody describe itself when asked?”</p><p>            Sasha swallowed, a slight flare of indignance making its home in her chest. “Well, if you’re going to speak in…in cheap riddles, then I can just leave,” she said, just enough venom in the words to make herself wince.</p><p>            Michael tilted its head (spun its head 180 degrees, its hair was curling fractals). “I apologize. You can call me…” it paused. “I suppose you could call me <em>Michael.”</em></p><p>The emphasis on its ‘name’ made Sasha think. It was clearly not its name, or, at least, not what it wanted to be called, but she didn’t exactly have anything else to call him. She swallowed.</p><p>            Michael waited, looking at her lightly with something that might have been amusement. It had two eyes, give or take.</p><p>            “Are you..What do you want?” Sasha asked. A good as question as any, she supposed.</p><p>            “I want to help,” it replied, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Its smile seemed even brighter, like it was pleased with itself. Sasha trained her gaze to the flowers, the deep blue crocuses the exact opposite of peaceful.</p><p>            “With what? Do you want to stop Prentiss?” Sasha pressed, irritation crawling under her skin like worms.</p><p>            That high laugh again, the sense of strange vertigo that came with it making Sasha blink. “I do not care whether you or your companions live or die. But…” Michael gave something that might have been a shrug, if you looked at it right. “The flesh hive has always been rash, and the Archivist will make good entertainment yet.” It smiled with what might have been too many mouths. “The scent of the Es Mentiras already lies heavily upon him, as you already well know,” it hummed.</p><p>            “What do you mean?” Sasha asked, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them.</p><p>            Michael leaned back at this, a bubbling sort of laugh creeping out of its throat. “He has not told you about his People? His Crew?”</p><p>            “What crew?!” Sasha asked, the need to know filling her veins with something that might not have been quite blood. “What do you mean?”</p><p>            Michael exhaled through (what might have been) its nose. “It is not my place to say, Sasha James. All you must know is that the assistant Tim is not the first with that name.” A sense of recoil shot through her at the names. Sasha grimaced despite herself, the look making Michael frown.</p><p>            “Why are you talking to<em> me?” </em>Sasha asked, her voice almost a whisper. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing her eyes back to the bright orange flowers.</p><p>            “I want to be friends,” Michael explained, reaching out with a hand that was both normal and entirely too long. Sasha shuddered, the feeling racking her body with <em>wrongness</em> as she ripped her hands out of Michael’s.</p><p>            She stalked to exit, Michael’s eye(s) boring light, conversational holes into her back as she pointedly ignored the strange sort of fear rising in her chest.</p><p>            The door was perhaps the wrong shade of brown, but the doorknob was cold steel against her hands. She moved to turn it, and—</p><p>            “If you’re interested in saving Jonathan Sims’s life, I will be waiting at Hanwell Cemetery.” The thing calling itself Michael paused as Sasha turned around. “Keep the flowers,” it added, a grin playing in its hair.</p><p>            Sasha left.</p><p>            .</p><p>            She found herself at the cemetery, of course, the next day, after a night of fitful rest and a day of glancing in every car window to see if anyone else had that distorted madness to them.</p><p>            No one did, and yet, she made her way to the cemetery.</p><p>            Michael didn’t speak, which Sasha thought was maybe even worse. It kept that air of oxymoronic serious amusement to it, and the boarded-up pub it entered with her was just the sort of place someone went to and didn’t come out the other end.</p><p>            There was a toolbox on the bar counter, and a fire extinguisher, but that wasn’t what caught Sasha’s attention.</p><p>            The thing slumped in the corner was not human. Sasha had listened to Martin’s statement, of course, and so she knew the <em>sort </em>of thing it had to be, but the smell, the <em>sight </em>of it—</p><p>            Jon was right, Sasha thought, somewhat deliriously. The worms did sound like pasta.</p><p>            She inhaled, sharply, and the figure seemed to turn to stare at her. The worms surged forward with a shocking speed, overwhelming the amount Sasha could logically stamp with her foot. She looked up frantically at Michael, but he just stared at her, its expression unreadable.</p><p>            Sasha’s hand brushed against something cold and metal.</p><p>            The fire extinguisher.</p><p>            Without thinking, she pulled the tab, and pointed the thing at the worms in front of her. To her surprise, they shriveled, emitting a shrieking squeal that was almost too high pitched for Sasha to hear.</p><p>            She continued, undeterred, aiming the fire extinguisher at the figure with a proficiency she didn’t even know she had. The figure shuddered, and slumped over with a finality Sasha had only seen in a few things before.</p><p>            She had the sudden urge to go through its pockets—ignoring the worm corpses, and her own light-headedness, she made her way to the being’s coat, rummaging through. It was empty, save for a wallet, the license proclaiming that the thing had once been someone called Timothy Hodge.</p><p>            The pain shot through her stupor, focusing her like a razor blade. She let out a strangled cry as she whipped her head around to see Michael, with a finger <em>in </em>her shoulder, digging into it like she was a sheet of paper.</p><p>            It <em>hurt.</em></p><p>She bit down another scream, her breathing ragged and irregular for an unknowable amount of time until Michael stopped with a triumphant noise, the shock of the sudden absence almost worse than the thing.</p><p>            And there was a worm, wriggling pathetically between Michael’s thumb and forefinger (or, what Sasha deliriously guessed must have been his thumb and forefinger. Really, there was no way to tell). Sasha swallowed, blinking heavily.</p><p>            “I told you to keep the flowers,” Michael reminded, an airy smile somewhere on its face.</p><p>            “W-what?” Sasha asked, her mind stoutly refusing to catch up to reality. Most likely the carbon dioxide. She should get out of here; the air makeup was probably all wrong. Should she call the cops? No, the…the corpse was gone (<em>oh my god the corpse is gone, where the hell did it go? </em>Sasha didn’t have an answer), and she was most likely trespassing anyway. She…she wanted to go home. “I—want…home—” Where was…</p><p>            A door.</p><p>            There was a door.</p><p>            That was her flat door, she reminded herself, with the old brown door that desperately needed a paint job. She blinked, inhaling air that really wasn’t doing anything to help her.</p><p>            “Well, go on, then,” she heard a voice (the thing that called itself Michael but was certainly <em>not) </em>say. “Open it.”</p><p>            She leaned on the door, something in the back of her mind screaming at her that <em>this was not her home, do not open the door—</em></p><p>She opened it, and stepped inside of her living room.</p><p>            Sasha inhaled deeply in surprise, the stuffy air filling her lungs with actual oxygen. She inhaled again, and again, leaning on a very convenient wall.</p><p>            She blearily looked around, to spot any abnormalities. She was…in the cemetery last she checked. Yes, she was in the cemetery, and then the worm man (Timothy Hodge, she remembered, the somewhat unflattering picture in his driver’s license greeting her in her mind’s eye), and the fire extinguisher, and the <em>pain</em>—</p><p>            And then she was here.</p><p>            Sasha wet her lip, scanning the room for any trace of the man who was most likely named Michael. She checked the windows, still leaning on the walls, for any distorted figures.</p><p>            Nothing.</p><p>            Sasha sighed, sinking into the old sofa. Her shoulder ached, and she let her eyes droop in sheer exhaustion.</p><p>            Something rustled, making Sasha’s eyes snap up in surprise.</p><p>            There. On the counter.</p><p>            A bouquet of silver and white flowers, that, if turned in the right direction, almost looked like worms.</p><p>            A stray petal fluttered to the ground, giving the distinct impression of something squirming.</p><p>            Sasha promptly thew up.</p><p>            .</p><p>            When she finished, Sasha was quiet, and the only sound in the office was the quiet whirring of the tape recorder.</p><p>            Jon cleared his throat. “Well, if that’s all, I’d advise you’d seek medical treatment for your cut—”</p><p>            “I’d like to ask you some questions,” Sasha interrupted. Jon felt his stomach drop. As soon as Sasha relayed the information the being calling itself Michael had cryptically given her, Jon knew there would be questions to answer, but he still had no idea what to <em>say. </em>He couldn’t exactly <em>tell </em>her about his Crew, she would never believe him anyway—</p><p>            “We should tell her,” Raphaella remarked, ruffling her wings.</p><p>            Jon made a sound that was perhaps slightly more of a squeak than he would have liked. “Like what?” he asked, as calmy as he was able, desperately trying to ignore the shocked outcries of his crew that had bubbled up over Raphaella’s previous statement.</p><p>            “The Crew Michael told me about, obviously,” Sasha replied. “<em>Tim. </em>Not ours, obviously. Yours. I’ve already decided that—” she swallowed, “The Tim I found…the <em>worm </em>Tim, couldn’t have been the Tim Michael was referencing.<em>”</em></p><p>Jon could hear the grin in Gunpowder’s voice as he spoke. “See, I’m famous here!”</p><p>            “Gunpowder, shut up,” Jon surreptitiously signed. Gunpowder did not, in fact, shut up.</p><p>            Sasha blinked, as if reminded of something. “That’s a good question, actually. Who’s Explosion?”</p><p>            Explosion? What was Sasha talking about? Jon didn’t know—</p><p>            His mind snapped into place, the dots clicking together neatly like a magnetic jigsaw puzzle piece.</p><p>            Gunpowder. Explosion. The signs looked much the same.</p><p>            <em>Fuck.</em></p><p>“Excuse Me?!” Jon spluttered, accidentally reverting to The Toy Soldier’s etiquette lessons, enunciating every word like it was its own unique phrase.</p><p>            “Explosion. You just signed for it to shut up, or something along those lines?” Sasha shrugged the somewhat gaunt look to their face overshadowed by plain matter-of-factness. “I’ve started learning sign, but I’m not fluent, at least not yet. Who are they?”</p><p>            Jon made a sound that was incredibly dignified and professional. “I…you <em>what?!” </em></p><p>            “She <em>what?!” </em>d’Ville burst simultaneously, as Nastya said “Smart one,” and Gunpowder took a short break from laughing to say a quick “I like her!”</p><p>            “Started learning sign language. I wanted to know what you were signing, and you don’t do it in front of Tim, so I couldn’t ask him. Who’s Explosion, and what’s your Crew?”</p><p>            Jon opened and closed his mouth, something like a drowning fish. “I—”</p><p>            Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”</p><p>            Jon exhaled sharply, coming to a quick descision. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, I know no-one called Explosion, and I would appreciate it if you would not ask again.”</p><p>            d’Ville groaned. “Spoilsport,” he complained. “It doesn’t matter that much anyway whether she knows or not,”</p><p>            Jon’s eye twitched, and he clasped his hands together in a valiant attempt to resist the instinct to (lovingly, of course) strangle d’Ville and his <em>blatant ignorance of everything, ever. </em>This was a blatant show of d’Ville’s main personality trait #3, thick-headed ignorance. Jon and Raphaella shared a look.</p><p>            “Oh, <em>come on, </em>Jon!” Sasha burst. “Do you really expect me to believe that you’re <em>just </em>our pompous, socially incompetent, slightly unhinged boss?”</p><p>            “Ouch,” Ashes commented, leaning on the desk with a nonchalance Jon didn’t think he would ever be able to match. “Not saying she’s wrong, but still,” they shrugged.</p><p>            Jon winced at that, biting his lip. “…Yes?” he ventured.</p><p>            Sasha groaned, the sound a mesh of exasperation and burning curiosity that Jon knew well. “You are being <em>intentionally obtuse.” </em>She stood up, pushing herself out of the chair with more force than was strictly necessary. “I’m going, but don’t think this conversation is over.” She stared at Jon meaningfully, but Jon wasn’t exactly sure what meaning he was supposed to get out of it. After about four seconds of uncomfortable saying, she turned on her heel and left the room, the door swinging shut behind her.</p><p>            Jon put his heads in his hands. He could feel it coming—someone was going to say something that d’Ville didn’t agree with, and d’Ville was going to shoot them for their insolence, which would lead to a conversation that Jon was <em>really not in the mood for. </em></p><p>“I mean, why <em>not </em>tell her?” Marius piped in from his place on the floor, like an idiot. Jon inwardly groaned. He was, currently, playing with Brian’s copper coil hair. “She could help us out?”</p><p>            d’Ville shot Marius for his insolence. “That’s a dumbass idea! Brian, tell him!”</p><p>            “I’m inclined to agree with Marius here, actually,” Brian shrugged.</p><p>            “Damnit, I thought you were on fun mode,” d’Ville pouted. Although Jon couldn’t actually see him from the angle he was at, he could hear him clicking an empty trigger at nothing in particular.</p><p>            “I <em>am </em>on Ends Justify Means, if that’s what you’re alluding to,” Brian replied. “And I think that, morally, the ends of Sasha being able to see us outweigh the short period of emotional strife that revelation would put her through.” Brian paused. “That seems like something you’d be interested in, too, why are you so intent on her not knowing about us? You seemed to like the idea well enough when Sasha was here.”</p><p>            Jon was, frankly, curious about this as well, and so was vaguely disheartened when d’Ville shot Brain through the chestplate. Brian sighed, flicking the bullet out of the plate. “I’m going to shut down now to repair,” he announced. Promptly, he slumped over. Marius continued to play with his hair.</p><p>            “Brian has a point—why <em>do </em>you care about whether Sasha knows or not?” Nastya asked, hand clasped over the flashdrive in her hands. “Aurora is curious as well.”</p><p>            “If anything, it would be a welcome social experiment—” Marius was cut off, again, by a bullet to the head. Really, Jon felt almost bad for the poor guy. Couldn’t even get a sentence out without Jonny shooting him in the head.</p><p>            “d’Ville, please stop shooting Marius,” Jon said, leaning heavily on The Toy Soldier. “The sound of it is giving me a horrible headache.”</p><p>            “Yeah, Jonny, you’re giving him a headache,” Marius said. d’Ville, in a gesture of uncharacteristic courtesy, didn’t shoot him.</p><p>            “Jonny-kid, you owe me one,” d’Ville grumbled, sitting down heavily with a sharp exhale.</p><p>            “That does lead into some points, however,” Raphaella said, taking advantage of the silence. “Little-Magnet, how do you feel about all of this?”</p><p>            Jon blinked at the pet name. Raphaella wasn’t really in the business of using nicknames like that, so the use of it was somewhat disconcerting, although not unwelcome. “I-uh, wh—”</p><p>            “Ultimately, it <em>is </em>your decision,” Nastya interrupted. “Don’t let anyone influence you.” She glared at d’Ville, the face that would make any regular mortal wither and die on the spot if it was subjected to them.</p><p>            Jon cleared his throat. “Well, there’s much to consider here, for example—”</p><p>            “<em>Christ, Jonny-kid there’re only two answers, yes or no, and you are not pickin’ either of them” </em>d’Ville burst, flailing dramatically onto Gunpowder, who hit him over the head with his gun. Jon was distantly thankful of him for not shooting him.</p><p>            “A textbook exampled of his fourth most defining personality trait,” Raphaella commented, stepping carefully over the quickly reviving corpse. “Jon, you don’t have to answer right now, but Sasha would be a perfect variable to add to the equation, especially right now.”</p><p>            “Stop tryna sway his vote,” d’Ville called from the floor.</p><p>            “<em>Seriously, </em>why do you care so much about Sasha not knowing?” Gunpowder asked, an exasperated sigh escaping his lungs. Ashes hummed in agreement, although not adding anything else to the conversation.</p><p>            “I don’t!” d’Ville defended, rather weakly, in Jon’s opinion, as his voice cracked halfway through the second word.</p><p>            “Liar.”</p><p>            “How <em>dare </em>you call your <em>captain </em>a—”</p><p>            “First mate!” came the inevitable resounding response.</p><p>            Jon let out a groan, long and effectively cutting off any arguments. “I think—” he swallowed. “I think we shouldn’t tell Sasha.” He looked up at the choruses of questions and grumbles. “At least, not yet. Definitely soon. Just, later. Alright? Everyone already has so much on their minds with the…the worms and all that.” He looked at the assembled group, trying to put as much desperation in his eyes as he could.</p><p>            A pause.</p><p>            “Yeah, that seems fair,” Gunpowder conceded, followed quickly by more murmured assents. “Jon, though, you look like you need a nap,” he said, tilting his head to look at Jon sideways.</p><p>            Jon glanced at the clock on the wall, covered in a thin layer of dust. “I can technically leave in two hours—”</p><p>            “Nope, that’s it, we’re going home now,” Nastya said abruptly, standing up. “Come on, Jon.”</p><p>            Jon balked. “But—but—”</p><p>            “No buts,” Ivy interjected, closing her book. “You look like you’re about to fall over on the spot, and frankly, there’s a rapidly increasing likelihood that you do just that if you don’t rest.”</p><p>             “That Seems Like A Right Good Idea!” The Toy Soldier agreed brightly. “And I Can Make Tea!”</p><p>            Jon did an internal check. He <em>was </em>tired. The past month of hiding from the assistants had really taken it out of him, not to mention that he hadn’t fully recovered from the worm incident either. And tea sounded quite nice, now that he was thinking about it. “Alright,” he finally said, pushing himself out from his desk and putting all other thoughts other than getting home and resting out of his mind.</p><p>            He’d think about this later.</p><p>            .</p><p>            Sasha, Tim, and Martin scattered quickly as they heard Jon get up, sharing a look.</p><p>            “What the <em>fuck,” </em>Tim whispered.</p><p>            Sasha shared his sentiment, and she could see from Martin’s expression that he did as well.</p><p>            Jon had some explaining to do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sasha wanted to stalk jon so bad I cannot even tell you, her part basically wrote itself<br/>thanks to @Aquisedragon for this transcribition of what the assistants heard through the door: </p><p>"d’Ville, please stop shooting Marius, The sound of it is giving me a horrible headache.”</p><p>“I-uh, wh—”</p><p>“Well, there’s much to consider here, for example—”</p><p>“I think— I think we shouldn’t tell Sasha. At least, not yet. Definitely soon. Just, later. Alright? Everyone already has so much on their minds with the…the worms and all that.”</p><p>“I can technically leave in two hours—”</p><p>“But—but—”</p><p>“Alright,”<br/> </p><p>Thank you so. much to everyone who’s kudosed and commented!! All ya’ll make my day &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Melanie King speedrunning character development</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Melanie King pays a visit to the archives.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just a bit of a filler chapter before the fun stuff ;))</p><p>content warnings for-<br/>-canon-typical stranger content (It’s Sarah Baldwin, so like, skin peeling)<br/>-internalized ableism (mild, but it’s there)<br/>-</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Melanie King knew this was a bad idea. She <em>knew </em>it. The visceral fear was ebbing, now, and replaced by the knowledge that she was making a mistake.</p><p>            She continued walking.</p><p>            She didn’t know where she was going, not really—but all she could think of was the snapping of skin, like pulling on waxy latex gloves, and a shiver of revulsion made its way down her spine. She picked up speed, until she was just shy of a sprint, her hands jammed into her pockets with such an intensity that she could feel the seam digging painfully into her knuckles.</p><p>            She swallowed, violently shaking her head.</p><p>            No-one’d believe her.</p><p>            Melanie tripped over her own feet, the overwhelming despair at that thought making her stumble. People didn’t think Ghost Hunt UK was real anyway, and having one of the castmembers go completely off the deep end, raving about Things with stapled-on skin would just sound like a posterity stunt at best, and a last-ditch grab for attention at worst.</p><p>            What place would take her seriously when she could barely keep it straight in her head? Her mind warped and rippled around the memories, the desperate closing over of the gaping wound of trauma interrupted every time, like poking at a scab. Melanie shuddered at the visceral image.</p><p>            The Magnus Institute.</p><p>            What?</p><p>            Melanie blinked, the thought revealing itself plainly, like it had always been there.</p><p>             The Magnus Institute was known for very little, in the realm of the paranormal, besides for being old, stuffy, and complete horseshit when it came to documenting actual supernatural encounters. Melanie shook her head, but the thought stayed, creeping at the edge of her mind all through her in-vain attempts to get her story across.</p><p>            She wasn’t even sure why she <em>wanted</em> people to hear her story, she told herself (she lied). If she just wanted to talk it out, she should get a therapist, for god’s sake, not spew her nonsense to any half-wit who would listen.</p><p>            And yet.</p><p>            And yet she found herself circling back to the Magnus Institute.</p><p>            The Archives were a bit of a mess, by which Melanie meant she could barely take two steps before knocking into the haphazard stacks of files that crowded every open surface. It was a bit too cluttered for her tastes, but the staff seemed nice enough, and really, she wasn’t here for the decor. The tall, curly-haired woman that had shown her to a chair looked at her sympathetically—Sasha, her nametag read, with a cheery heart emoji to match. Melanie scoffed inwardly. She probably got nutcases like Melanie every day, using and refining that smile until it was perfected for who Melanie had no doubt Sasha saw as a pack of liars and the mentally infirm.  </p><p>            Melanie leaned back, biting her lip to keep from screaming in anger. She was <em>not </em>insane. The sheer thought of such a thing made her heart skip a beat in indignance, and then speed up as a sudden boost of rage-fueled adrenaline shot through. Melanie could feel the guttural growl rise in her throat, and her vision began to blot out with red fury—</p><p>            And then she saw them.</p><p>            They were short, and strangely vicious looking, with thick black lines that looked just <em>slightly </em>off from tattoos spidering from their eyes. They were staring directly at her with an intensity that was oddly familiar to Melanie—she had seen it before, on Sarah Baldwin, whenever she asked about the strange perfume that Melanie knew now was <em>not </em>just perfume. Just like that night (it was only a couple of nights ago, she realized with a start. It seemed so long ago, now), Melanie couldn’t bring herself to look away, giving the person as sharp a glare as she could manage.</p><p>            The person raised an eyebrow in amusement when she didn’t look away, then in slight confusion, then with a manic excitement that cemented in Melanie’s mind that they were absolutely wacko.</p><p>             Melanie glared even harder, noticing with a jolt that the person’s grin was layered with rows upon rows of incisors, crammed into their mouth to the point that Melanie was only half certain that there was anything in their mouth <em>other </em>than teeth.</p><p>            Melanie refused to be afraid. She pursed her lips, taking deep breaths to sooth the (rising terror) growing apprehension in her chest. She had seen stapled <em>skin, </em>for god’s sake, a few too many teeth shouldn’t scare her.</p><p>            The person with the too-many belts and the vicious grin looked away.</p><p>            Melanie blinked, hard, a heavy sigh racking her lungs as she allowed herself to breathe again.</p><p>            “Ashes! Go tell Jonny-kid, we’ve got another one!” The guy called, in a voice that really didn’t seem to fit their person. They turned back to Melanie, who shivered involuntarily. “Don’t tell her,” they flicked their head to indicate Sasha, “that you can see us. We wanna keep it a surprise for the time bein’.” They winked. “Also, he/him, if ya were wondering.”</p><p>            “Jonny, stop antagonizing them,”  a voice called from inside the Archives, ostensibly the person Jonny called. ‘Ashes’ was slightly more blurred (For lack of a better word) than the man apparently called Jonny, with red dyed hair, a significantly classier outfit, and a silver lighter grasped loosely in their right hand. “Sorry about him. He’s a bastard, but we love him.”</p><p>            Melanie genuinely didn’t know how to respond. “Great,” she said, plastering on as pleasant (intimidating) a smile as she could muster. “It’s a pleasure.”</p><p>            Sasha looked up from her desk. “Hm? Did you say something?” she asked, tilting her head.</p><p>            Melanie’s brain skittered. “i-uh, no, no, no I’m good, thanks,” she said, giving what was probably the most awkward thumbs-up in the history of hand signals.</p><p>            Sasha nodded, slowly, giving Melanie a scrutinizing look. Melanie, absolutely not in the mood, shot her a glare, a toned-down version of the one she had given Jonny.</p><p>            “Alright,” Sasha finally relented, turning back to whatever it was she was working on. Melanie leaned against the headboard, closing her eyes. She had half a mind to leave this stupid place altogether—</p><p>            No.</p><p>            The memory overwrote itself, and was gone.</p><p>            Melanie learned against the headboard, closing her eyes. She opened them again to Jonny, staring over her with the same intensity as before, albeit slightly more friendly (if you could call it that. He still looked like he was two skips and a wiggle away from not-metaphorically biting her head off).</p><p>            “Well?” he asked, a grin fixed loosely on his face. “Gonna do anything interesting?”</p><p>            Melanie spluttered. “I—” she whipped her head to Sasha, who didn’t look up. She lowered her volume. “I want you to <em>leave me alone,” </em>she hissed. “Wasn’t the skin peeling enough spooky for one lifetime?!” She fingered the knife hidden in the seam of her coat, running her fingers on the flat side of the blade.</p><p>            The other person, the one with the lighter, furrowed their eyebrows. The air around them warped slightly, like she was seeing through a heat mirage. “We haven’t peeled anyone’s skin lately,” they said. “Probably thinking about someone else.”</p><p>            Jonny scoffed. “If ya’re worried ‘bout someone peeling your skin off, better steer clear of Raphaella. Other than that, it’s a bit too much work for me. Rather’d kill ya outright, frankly.”</p><p>            Melanie let out a barklike laugh. “Right, well, thanks for that. Good to know my skin is staying firmly <em>on </em>my body.”</p><p>            “For the time being,” Jonny added.</p><p>            Sasha looked up. “Are you talking to someone?” she asked. Her voice was more curious than accusatory, but Melanie’s hackles raised all the same.</p><p>            “No, of course not,” Melanie spat. “I was just—”</p><p>            “Talking to someone,” Sasha finished. “Someone I can’t see? Would one of these people perhaps be named d’Ville or Marius?”</p><p>            Jonny spluttered. “<em>WHAT.” </em></p><p>            Ashes leaned against the wall, an amused smirk coloring their features.</p><p>            “I—I am not talking to anyone, thank you very much, and if I was, neither of those people would be named d’Ville or Marius,” Melanie repeated, distinctly aware of Jonny shooting off into the inner Archives, screaming to who knows who.</p><p>            Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Do they have other names then?”</p><p>            Melanie blinked. Man, this woman was persistent. Melanie could respect that, even if she didn’t particularly <em>appreciate </em>it right about now. “I—no! there’s no one there!” <em>I won’t have you thinking I’m insane! </em>went unsaid, but loud in its subtext.</p><p>            “I wouldn’t think you were insane if there were,” Sasha said.</p><p>            Melanie looked frantically at Ashes, whose aura (for lack of a better term, although Melanie still cringed at its usage) of heat made it so Melanie could barely see their face. “I don’t care,” they said, not looking up. “It’s Jonny and Little-Jon you have to worry about.”</p><p>            Melanie straightened her shoulders. “It counts as supernatural, right? I’m making a statement anyway.”</p><p>            Sasha’s face lit up like a house on fire. She looked like she was about to say something, but then a man stumbled out of the office, glasses skewed halfway off their face. There were two people behind him (or, well, maybe ‘people’ wasn’t the right word. One of them was Jonny, looking somewhat flustered, and the other looked like some sort of hyper-realistic brass robot.) “There’s a-a statement giver?” they asked, eyes searching until they landed on Melanie, who shivered under the gaze.</p><p>            Sasha smiled, speaking up for Melanie. “Yes! Jon! Tim and Martin and I are all going to listen in to this statement as well, for no reason whatsoever.”</p><p>            Jon blinked. “I—That seems slightly unprofessional, Sasha—”</p><p>            “Yeah, what the fuck, Sasha,” Jonny said from where he was positioned behind Jon. Jon moved his hand out to thwack the voice.</p><p>            Melanie startled. “You—you can—” she pointed to Jon, who made a sharp cutting motion, something frantic in his eyes.</p><p>            “Can what?” Sasha asked, her own eyes sparkling.</p><p>            “Nothing,” Melanie and Jon said at the same time.</p><p>            “Okay, that was creepy, boss, do we need to add mind-control powers to the list?” a new person (in a Hawaiian print shirt that would have been garish on anyone else) asked, leaning against Sasha’s desk.</p><p>            “What do you mean, mind control powers?!” Melanie spluttered. “I give up, this is a waste of time, I’m going.” She turned on her heel, ignoring the rising protests behind her.</p><p>            Maybe she would see about getting a therapist after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jonny’s preferred way of judging someone: staring contest!</p><p>stay tuned for the next chapter ;) </p><p>comments, kudos, and critiques are my lifeblood, thank you so much to everyone who’s commented or kudosed, you all really make my day! we”ve passed the fifty page mark on Word, which is i n s a n e</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. spiders</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jane Prentiss attacks the Institute.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a behemoth of a chapter five days early, as I have no self restraint and hyperfixation’s a pain</p><p> </p><p>cws for this chapter are:<br/>-canon typical worms<br/>-swearing<br/>-weird gore<br/>-regular gore (mild)<br/>-paranoia<br/>-(haha) imposter syndrome</p><p>if I’ve missed anything, please tell me!</p><p>enjoy ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Jon remembered the book. It was cardboard, small, a board book for children and Jon was </em>not <em>a child. He held it, for this reason, with a disdain that only a discerning eight-year-old can truly achieve.</em></p><p>
  <em>            It was d’Ville who had finally relented to reading it, after Gunpowder and Ashes had goaded him, taunting him and saying d’Ville couldn’t read, which was really very rude, Jon thought.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>            But he was reading to him now, and Jon felt safe in the lap of his Crewmate, so when Jon turned the first page he was as relaxed as a child could be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>            Then the terror had seized his heart.</em>
</p><p><em>            The spider. The spider, Mr. Spider, large and bulbous and horrible and </em>wrong, <em>and Jon was walking, and he could hear gunshots, and yelling, distantly, but he couldn’t help but grip the book tightly in his fingers, the cartoonish realism staring him down as he raised his hand to knock on the door—</em></p><p>            <em>He was ripped away. The teen (Thomas? Alfie? Daniel?) smiled at him, toothy and red (brownblack) stringy (straightcurlybald) hair but his face was blurred and Jon was sobbing into the arms of his crew when the teen started to read, so he couldn’t stop him when he knocked on the door and Mr. Spider grabbed him and the teen was screaming and Jon was screaming and there was nothing he could do—</em></p><p>            Jon sighed heavily, putting down the statement. This had been a rough one, hitting slightly closer to home than he would have liked. Really, this whole week had been something of a challenge, especially after Melanie had all but given Sasha the information she needed to uncover the ‘mystery’ of the Crew.</p><p>            As Jon felt the sort of tether-like connection to the words slacken, he slumped in their chair, reviewing their follow-up. “This is not the first time Mikaele Salesa’s name has come to the attention of the Institute. Even discounting the incidental role he played in case—” They looked to Ivy for help.</p><p>            “It’s #0112905, Jon,” Ivy said, not looking up.</p><p>            Jon cleared his throat, signing a quick thank you. Ivy gave them a thumbs up. “#0112905, he appears to have something of a knack for locating objects displaying more…” The word, what was that word they were looking for?</p><p>            “Disconcerting, perhaps?” Nastya supplied, noticing their floundering. “Professional, but not overtly…” they flashed a smile— “spooky.”</p><p>            Jon suppressed a sigh at the s-word, which made Nastya snort. “<em>Disconcerting </em>phenomena.” I believe some of the more bizarre things in the Artifact Storage area were purchased from him. It has been something of a—”</p><p>            “JONNY-KID! SPIDER ALERT!” d’Ville yelled, his voice shrill but not <em>really </em>a squeak.</p><p>            Jon jumped. “Wha—oh. Urgh. Urgh.” Jon grimaced, reaching for the statement. The spider was on the wall next to them, large and round and disgusting. “Thank you for pointing that out.”</p><p>            “No prob, Jonny-kid,” d’Ville said, his back to the opposite wall. In any other situation, Jon knew that the others of his Crew would be jumping on this blatant show of fear, but spiders were a touchy subject for all of them, especially Jon. Jon silently thanked them for that.</p><p>            Jon scraped their chair over to the wall, stoutly refusing to get out of his seat. He grabbed the statement, rolling it up tightly before whacking it at the wall—</p><p>            “Ah!” The shelves all collapsed, the spider skittering into some corner as Jon fell backward. He caught his breath, cursing cheaply made shelves with all his being.</p><p>            He heard the door open. “Jon, is everything alright?”</p><p>            That was Sasha. Damnit.</p><p>            “Yes, everything’s fine, just a—a spider. I’m fine now, you can leave—”</p><p>            “No can do, bossman.” Jon looked up to see Tim and Sasha in the doorway, Tim leaning on the doorframe, Sasha fully inside the office. Both wore expressions of triumph, like they had finally cornered him.</p><p>            Damnit all, they had.</p><p>            “Bossperson, today, actually,” Jon said absently, his mind racing to find a way to get out of this. Maybe if he said they had to go to the bathroom, they would let him go, and then they could escape through the window?</p><p>            “That’s a bad idea, Jonny-kid,” d’Ville said, still firmly sticking to the opposite wall. “There’s no escaping this one.”</p><p>            Jon inwardly groaned.</p><p>            “Bossperson, then. We’ve got a shelf to fix!” Tim grinned, a triumphant look in his eyes that Jon hated with every fiber of their being. “A shelf takes a <em>long </em>time to fix, as we all know. We’ll have to talk a <em>lot </em>to pass the time.” Tim raised an eyebrow at Jon, who felt his heart sink into his stomach.</p><p>            God, Jon hated this already.</p><p>            “I don’t need help, it was just a spider, and it’s gone now, so you all can leave, I can put up the shelf again by myself—” Jon interrupted, waving his hands in what he hoped was a signal that he wanted the conversation to be over.</p><p>            “I don’t think so, with those little twig arms of yours!” Tim smiled as he sauntered up to Jon’s desk, leaning over it to look Jon in the eyes. They pointedly averted his gaze. Gunpowder snorted.</p><p>            “He’s not wrong, Jon,” Gunpowder acknowledged, a matching grin on his face. He sat on Jon’s desk as well, his legs crossed and turned to face Jon. “There is <em>no </em>way you’re strong enough to lift an <em>entire shelf.” </em></p><p>            Jon groaned inwardly. “Shut up <em>Tim,” </em>he signed, putting emphasis on Gunpowder’s last name. “Not the time.”</p><p>            “Oh, I think it’s the <em>perfect </em>time!” Tim (Stoker, Jon noted with growing despair) raised an eyebrow as Gunpowder gasped in mock offense in the background. “Unless, perhaps, you weren’t signing to me?”</p><p>            Jon hated this.</p><p>            Sasha made her way to the shelf, tracing her hand on the wall. Jon noticed that it was indented slightly. “Guys, look.” She turned to Jon. “Was this here before?”</p><p>            Jon jumped on this opportunity to change the subject, clearing their throat. “Uh—no. Got dented when the shelf collapsed, I suppose.”</p><p>            Sasha shook her head, her expression drawn into what Jon recognized as her “I’ve just uncovered an interesting mystery” face. A horrible face, in Jon’s opinion. Much too nosey. “No, no, it goes right through.”</p><p>            “Isn’t that an exterior wall?” Raphaella asked. “Also, the tape recorder is still running, Jon.”</p><p>            Jon clicked it off. It clicked itself back on. Jon decided not to bother.</p><p>            “I, I thought this was an exterior wall?” Sasha said simultaneously.</p><p>            “Jinx,” Marius called. He was promptly shot, but that had little to do with Marius himself and more with the nerves that crowded the small office.</p><p>            “It should be,” Tim interjected, his voice the same sort of curious, albeit with a more concerned ring to it. “I’ve studied this architecture—”</p><p>            “Yes, yes, we know, Tim, you know all about Victorian building plans,” Sasha said, more absent-minded than anything. She traced her hand in circles around the indent, seemingly thinking.</p><p>            “I’m just saying, Sash, that isn’t—”</p><p>            “I think it’s just plasterboard?” Jon said, looking closely at the thing. “Here, Sasha, I think we can just break through—” Jon put his fist through, which was quickly followed by Sasha’s foot, until the whole thing crumbled underneath their limbs. Jon stared, not quite sure what to do.</p><p>            “Can you see anything?” Tim asked, peering though. “Jon, can you?”</p><p>            “I—no, I don’t think so, it—” Jon blinked, the faint echo ringing in his ears. It wasn’t much of a <em>song, </em>not like the ones his Crew sang to him, but it was somewhat melodious. “Can—can you hear that?”</p><p>            “Yeah, yeah what is that?” Sasha leaned in; her eyebrows furrowed. The sound was less like a melody, now, a bit more like running a hand through wet pasta. It was getting louder, that was for certain, the steady crescendo making Jon’s ears ring. They leaned in with Sasha, the stagnant air of the Archives intermingling with the cool wafts of old air from the hole.</p><p>            Wait.</p><p>            Jon did a double take. Was that something...moving in the—</p><p>            Tim pulled them both back, apprehension written clearly on his face. “Guys, I don’t think that’s a good idea, I—”</p><p>            And then the worms.</p><p>            They burst out of the hole, the overwhelming tide startling Jon into grabbing onto Nastya, who gripped his hand tightly in hers. Jon stared, unable to move away, unable to do anything but <em>stare </em>at the oncoming hoard that was coursing out of the hole, a flood of horrible, squamous things—.</p><p>            Jon was suddenly reminded of the train that ripped a hole in reality. He wondered, now, if there were any worms on the tracks.</p><p>            He giggled at this.</p><p>            d’Ville raced forward, leaping over the desk and grabbing Sasha and Tim by the backs of their shirts, thrusting them forward as Nastya pulled at Jon’s arm. “RUN!” She screamed as the worms overcame them, the squirming pasta-sound grating in Jon’s racing mind.</p><p>            Jon’s instincts kicked into gear, and he ran.</p><p>            .</p><p>            Martin didn’t really know what to expect from the crash in Jon’s office. After he was sent to ‘stand guard’, or something, he went off to make himself some tea. If he wasn’t going to be involved, he might as well not be involved with some nice earl grey.</p><p>            He certainly wasn’t expecting Tim, Jon, and Sasha to come racing out of the office like hell was on their heels.</p><p>            Oh. There was hell on their heels, if hell meant a wave of white moving flesh.</p><p>            “Guys? Is everythi—oH CHRIST—” Martin dropped the tea at the sight, the…those were <em>worms </em>that were spilling out of the office, toppling over each other and writhing across the floor. Martin couldn’t move, he was fixed to the spot, he couldn’t—</p><p>            “Shut up and get the extinguishers!” Jon burst, already sprinting away.</p><p>            “What?” Martin’s brain skittered like a scratched record; his eyes fixed on the ever-growing mass of worms.</p><p>            “The CO2! Get the goddamn CO2!” Jon’s voice was frantic, but not afraid—like someone on a particularly straining reality television show.</p><p>            Martin swallowed. “Right, right, right, right, right, yep.” With each ‘right’ he took two steps, grabbing three fire extinguishers and throwing them to Sasha, Jon, and Tim. They each caught them, Jon with a bit of a fumble, and Martin grabbed one for himself.</p><p>            “NOW!” Jon yelled, pulling the lever on his to summon a spray of CO2. Martin did the same, but was quickly overcome with the despair that this was not enough, there were so many of them—</p><p>            “There’s too many,” he gasped, stumbling backwards.</p><p>            “Just keep spraying!” Sasha called. Martin glanced at her—her curly hair stuck to her dark skin with sweat, and her face was fixed into a determined stare. Tim, next to her, was paler than Martin had ever seen him, hands gripped on the extinguisher with white knuckles.</p><p>            Jon looked at Martin and smiled.</p><p>            Martin inhaled sharply, looking away to face the worms. They were quicky catching up to them, and the squelching screams echoed in his mind like a thousand gongs.</p><p>            Wait.</p><p>            There was something in the corner of his eye. It was copper, almost like brass, reflecting the dim light of the archives.</p><p>            Martin blinked, and it was gone.</p><p>             “We need to go,” he heard Jon saying.</p><p>            “Where?” Sasha asked, desperation creeping into her voice. Martin could feel his heart hammer in his chest as he waited for a response.</p><p>            “Uh…uh—” Jon shrugged apologetically.</p><p>            “Damn!” Sasha swore. Martin felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. He didn’t dare take his hands off the extinguisher—the worms, they were catching up, and Martin’s shuffled steps did <em>nothing.</em></p><p>            “I just…uh…let, let me think!” Jon finally said, Martin’s heart sinking with every second. He got the distinct impression he wasn’t actually talking to Sasha, but this was <em>not </em>the time to talk about that.</p><p>            “Do you see Prentiss? If we could get her—” Martin thanked Sasha a thousand times over for that stroke of genius. He scanned the masses (oh <em>god </em>the worms had <em>teeth</em>) for any sign of a woman in a ragged wine-red dress.</p><p>            He saw nothing.</p><p>            His lungs heaved. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, dismissed it, it wasn’t Prentiss, it wasn’t, and “I, I, I don’t see her! I don’t see her! I don’t see her!” Martin was well aware of the panic creeping into his vision. His knees were weak underneath him. He could <em>hear </em>Jon trying to think, but he <em>wasn’t</em> <em>coming up with anything, </em>and the swarms were just getting closer—</p><p>            “You know the way, idiot!” He heard a voice yell directly into his ear. Martin let out a cry, whipping his head around, but it wasn’t Tim or Sasha or Jon, and he couldn’t—</p><p>            He knew where to go.</p><p>            Idiot!</p><p>            “This way!” he called, racing down the thin hallways and, for once, not caring what thousand-year-old statements he ran into. He knew where he was going, and Jon couldn’t exactly fault him for discarded statements, he thought deliriously. He was leading them, he could hear the worms changing directions with a sickening chorus of screeches, but he ignored it. He ignored it. He ignored—</p><p>            “LOOK OUT!”</p><p>            Martin blinked as something barreled into him—were those worms? Oh, no, it was Jon, but no, Jon was shorter, and this man was metal, no, <em>brass</em>, but he <em>felt </em>like Jon, but he was—</p><p>            Gone. He was gone. Martin lunged out of the way as another swarm of warms fell from the ceiling. He didn’t dare look behind him. What if—what if he had <em>left </em>them, what if <em>they </em>had left him to the worms, as bait, or something—</p><p>            “Martin!” Tim bumped him, giving a manic grin that was more sheer terror than anything. “Martin, we have to keep going!”</p><p>            Martin didn’t let himself sigh in relief, but he managed a wobbly smile. “I, yeah, in here, it’s just through here—” He led them through a door, into Document Storage, his room.</p><p>            He watched as Tim and Sasha raced through, collapsing onto the ground with the documents strewn over the floor. Jon waited at the door, was he <em>yelling </em>at the worms? That idiot! Martin moved to drag him into the room, by his <em>shirt </em>if need be, but then he seemed to be pulled in by his own accord, yelling in a language Martin vaguely perceived as Russian. The door slammed shut behind him, and Martin could hear the suction-cupped seal.</p><p>            Somewhere, a tape recorder clicked off.</p><p>            .</p><p>            “Oh, it’s recording again,” Martin noted. Tim didn’t fucking care. He was writhing on the ground and darkly reminded of a squirming worm at his own movements, he didn’t fucking care if some goddamned tape was recording his misery. “Did you get it?”</p><p>            Tim let out another groan, the pain shocking up and down his left arm as Sasha extracted the worm with a squelch that made Tim never want to eat pasta ever again. “There,” Sasha said with a huff. “And I just want to point out that I didn’t make this much of a fuss.” She winked at Tim, who rolled his eyes.</p><p>            “I think your removal was <em>a lot fucking cleaner, </em>Sash, no offense,” he said, ferociously battling the urge scream a litany of curses that really wouldn’t have been appropriate for younger audiences.</p><p>            Sasha sighed. “I’m still not sure why you have this, Martin. Drinking in the archives?” Tim appreciated her for trying to bring levity to the situation—the stricken look on Martin’s face, like he was affronted at the very thought, was the only thing that kept Tim from screaming into the void, as it were.</p><p>            “What?! No, of course not, it’s for worms.” Martin explained, explaining nothing.</p><p>            “…what.” Tim said, intelligently.</p><p>            Martin shrunk in his seat. “For pulling the worms out of people.” He gestured vaguely to Tim’s arm. “Like now.”</p><p>            The silence was only broken by Jon’s hushed whisperings in the corner. Tim pointedly tried to ignore them.</p><p>            “You, er…” Sasha glanced at Tim, who shrugged, eyes wide. “what?”</p><p>            Martin bit his lip, looking away. “I used to carry around a knife, but I started thinking, that, well, cutting into someone laterally wasn’t <em>really </em>the most efficient way, to, uh, get them out, and besides, they seemed to be quite slow? Burrowing in a straight line, I mean, so, given their size, th-the corkscrew just seemed the better option.” Martin sighed, the look on his face something close to resigned despair. “Look, you guys got to go home every day, okay? I-I didn’t. I’ve been thinking for a <em>long </em>time about what to do when, when—” Martin swallowed. “well, y’know, <em>this </em>happens. Yeah.”</p><p>            Another silence. If Tim weren’t literally throbbing with pain, he would have given Martin a hug. “Martin, I’m so sorry we weren’t there for you. Thank you.” He gave Martin a small smile, and Martin turned red, mumbling unneeded apologies and explanations.</p><p>            “That’s why we’re here, then?” Sasha asked, turning the corkscrew repeatedly in her hands.</p><p>            Martin nodded. “Yeah. The room’s sealed, I checked myself when I moved in.”</p><p>            “Isn’t it climate controlled, too? It definitely has a strong door, that’s for sure.” He sighed. “Glad to know that our good ol’ doubleboss cares more about keeping these dusty old files safe than us, his actual employees. Good thinking, Martin,” he added, refusing to let what very well may be his last words be a diss about his boss.</p><p>            “They could still come in through the air con,” Sasha said, biting the circular part of the corkscrew.</p><p>            Tim shook his head. “Not easily, and not all at once. It’s actually safe, I’d reckon, at least for the time being.”</p><p>            Martin let out a laugh at that.</p><p>            “Except of course, that we’re trapped,” Tim said, and immediately regretted it. The dejected look on Martin’s face made Tim want to wrap him in a hug, but, alas, his arm went into a screaming rant of pain at him for daring to even think such a thing.</p><p>            “Ah. Yeah.” Martin paused. “Sorry.”</p><p>            “Hey, Martin, it’s okay. You’re doing great,” Tim said, giving Martin as sincere a look as he could muster. “I’d give you a hug, but my worm marks seem to be decidedly against that idea for the time being. A spirit hug, then.”</p><p>            “Spirit hug it is,” Martin said, a genuine smile on his lips.</p><p>            “Oi, Jon, whatcha doin’ over there?” Tim called, effectively ruining what turned out to be a very comfortable silence. Jon fixed him with a glare.</p><p>            “I am <em>trying </em>to make a plan of action, <em>Tim,” </em>he said, the venom in his words something Tim had been on the giving end of too many times. Tim could see Martin wince.</p><p>            “Okay, boss, you gonna include any of us on these <em>plans?” </em>Tim ventured, pushing the playful lilt of his voice as far as it would go without snapping.</p><p>            “No, Tim, I don’t plan to (Shut <em>up, </em>Gunpowder, I don’t care!).”</p><p>            “Gunpowder?” Sasha asked, adjusting her glasses. “Are you talking to your Crew?”</p><p>            Jon let out a sound that was part frustration and part something else, something Tim couldn’t (or, well, didn’t want to) place. “Sure! Sure, maybe I <em>am </em>talking to people that no one else can see or hear or <em>feel, </em>because that makes sense! And maybe, just maybe, one of those people is missing, didn’t get through the door in time, and is now subject to the worms! Of course, that makes sense! Perfect sense!” Jon was pacing, now, wildly waving his hands around in front of him. Tim was, not for the first time, seriously concerned for his sanity.</p><p>            “O…kay, Jon, do you want to sit down?” Tim asked. Really, he thought he was very calm, considering what Jon had just admitted to. Tim winced at the bolt of pain jolting up and down his arm as he sat up.</p><p>            “No, I do not want to <em>sit down, </em>Tim!” Jon burst, his gaze firmly fixed on the wall opposite of the door.</p><p>            “Jon, Jon, I think you should sit down,” Martin said, the tentative waver of his voice, making Tim’s cold, dead heart crinkle in sympathy. “You don’t—the worms, I know, they’re—”</p><p>            “I don’t <em>care, </em>Martin, the worms are fine, it’s the—”</p><p>            A choked gasp from Martin, the sound as shocked and and angry as Tim was beginning to feel. “What do you mean the worms are fine?! How dare—”</p><p>            Tim spared a glance at the window, and his heart stopped.</p><p>            That was—</p><p>            No. Couldn’t be. But that—the—</p><p>            That was an automaton.</p><p>            No. Worse. That was…it was—covered in worms, burrowing into its..was that wood? It had to be, but it was smiling, the uncannily stiff movements, the outrageous costume, the plasticky feeling that surrounded it, that Tim got when he looked at it, Tim <em>knew </em>that—</p><p>            He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the streaks of agony coursing through his at the motion. “What the fuck is that.” He asked no one in particular, but mostly Jon.</p><p>            Sasha peered out of the dusty window. “Other than worms?”</p><p>            “No, not the <em>worms,</em> the fucking<em> mannequin—" </em>Tim could feel the adrenaline rapidly replacing blood in his body, the absolute terror that turned the world into high definition, that feeling he <em>knew,</em> and a memory, a—</p><p>            <em>His skin is not his skin is not his skin he has no skin</em></p><p>He toppled into someone, oh, that was Jon, and they were all yelling. At Tim? Maybe. Tim didn’t care. was focused on the mannequin (but no, that wasn’t the right word, mannequins were plastic, and this was wood, an automaton? A <em>thing?) </em>and he couldn’t breathe and—</p><p>            “Tim!”</p><p>            The voice wasn’t Sasha’s, or Martin’s or even <em>Jon’s, </em>tinny and brass and the shock wavered him enough to see, tear his eyes away from the <em>thing </em>outside.</p><p>            Jon’s mouth, Tim realized, was moving. Saying something. Words, probably. Tim couldn’t really hear them, over the cacophony of carnival music in his own skull, and his hands started moving automatically, like they used to when Danny—</p><p>            Jon signed back, confusion and—wait. Was that <em>worry </em>that colored his face? Tim snorted at the thought, although he wasn’t sure that it came across as humorous as he’d been intending. “You saw someone out there?” Jon signed.</p><p>            Tim scoffed. “Wasn’t a person. Fuckin thing.” His fingers trembled despite himself.</p><p>            Jon’s face contorted into a look like Tim had just punched them in the face. “the Toy Soldier is <em>not </em>a thing!” he signed, his fingers stiff and accusatory. Tim wondered vaguely how fingers could be accusatory.</p><p>            “What’s the Toy Soldier?” Sasha’s voice, that infuriatingly curiosity that Tim knew like the back of his hand a small comfort.</p><p>            Jon’s eyes widened; his mouth pursed into a thin line. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice about as stiff as his fingers.</p><p>            “Okay, Jon?” This was Martin, and the hardness of his tone made Tim jolt.</p><p>            “Yes, Martin?”</p><p>            “Shut up.”</p><p>            “What?” the sound Jon made seemed to be mostly disbelief, with a bit of tempered shock in there somewhere. Tim couldn’t bring himself to care, still gripping the edge of the window with his not-worm-bloodied hand as he saw the Thing wave at the worms as they crawled up its arm, eating its way through its woody skin until Tim could see the exposed ball joint, see the shining copper clockwork through its placid smile—</p><p>            Tim turned to look at Martin, who’s straight back and steely eyes made Tim do a double take. “You heard me. You know something that you’re keeping from us, ever since…the first worm incident!” Martin shook his head. “I don’t know if you-you’re <em>working </em>for the…the Prentiss, or—”</p><p>            “Or Michael,” Sasha added.</p><p>            “Or Michael, or <em>what!” </em>Martin inhaled sharply. “And if you—you’re not, but you still know something and you aren’t sharing, then…” A swallow. Tim could <em>feel </em>the thoughts racing through his head, the poor man. “then that makes you just as bad.”</p><p>            “I—what?” Jon blinked, turning behind him to stare at <em>whatever </em>it was he always turned to stare at. Tim felt himself bristle.</p><p>            “Okay, sorry, that was a bit uncalled for—”</p><p>            “No, Martin, I think you’re completely correct,” Tim interrupted. Jon stared at him, some shocked emotion taking over his face. Tim smiled. “<em>And </em>the only way to remedy this heinous crime is to, you guessed it, <em>talk, </em>Jonny-boy.<em>” </em>Tim’s smile took on a bit of a manic edge, but really, Tim didn’t care. If anything, it added to his point.</p><p>            Jon retaliated, if by retaliation you meant that he looked a bit like they’d just been slapped. “I—don’t call me that,” he stammered.</p><p>            Tim raised an eyebrow at the hook Jon had inadvertently given him. “Oh, really, <em>Jonny-boy</em>? Why don’t you talk, then? Maybe about the Thing outside?”</p><p>            “The worms?” Martin asked.</p><p>            Tim let out a groan. “No, not the <em>fucking worms, </em>the wood <em>thing </em>outside—”</p><p>            “Our desks?” Sasha supplied. Tim seriously considered what would happen if he combusted on the spot from sheer anger. “Because I don’t see anything else out there, Tim.”</p><p>            “<em>No, what the—</em>”</p><p>            “He <em>means </em>the Toy Soldier,” Jon interrupted. “It’s stuck outside.”</p><p>            “A…a toy soldier?” Martin asked, his voice disbelieving. “What would a toy be doing outside?”</p><p>            “No, <em>The </em>Toy Soldier,” Jon enunciated. Their annoyance was palpable.</p><p>            “Okay, and <em>the </em>Toy Soldier is a goddamn Circus Freak, and I would, very much like to know, Jon, what you’re doing with a Circus Freak that, apparently, only I can see.” Tim’s smile was more of a grimace, and he waved violently with his non-worm-injuried hand.</p><p>            Jon gave Tim the most affronted look he had ever seen. “Well, that’s not very nice,” they said, like they had been personally offended. “And entirely inaccurate, besides. The Toy Soldier is neither a freak, nor a circus. (d’Ville, that was <em>incredibly </em>rude!)”</p><p>            Tim grinned, no humor in his face. “And who’s d’Ville, Jonny-boy?”</p><p>            Jon gave an intense glare to the air right above Tim’s head. “Er, Jonny-boy.” Jon explained, with no small amount of hesitance. “My…namesake, as it were.”</p><p>            Martin raised his hand. “Okay, am I the only one who is completely and utterly lost? And is also not lost on the fact that we are <em>trapped here? </em>With <em>worms, right outside our door?” </em></p><p>            “We’ll get to that later, don’t worry, Martin,” Tim flashed him a grin. Martin frowned.</p><p>            “Okay, so what the fuck is the Toy Soldier, then?” Tim asked, turning to Jon with no small amount of screaming pain from his arm. “And <em>why, oh dear God why, </em>does it feel like the <em>fucking Circus?”</em></p><p>“I—as far as I know, the Toy Soldier has <em>never </em>been in a circus,” Jon said, confusion in his gaze as he kept staring directly above Tim.</p><p>            “No, not a circus, <em>the </em>Circus, and you know what I mean!”</p><p>            “I assure you, I do not!”</p><p>            “Quiet, quiet, both of you!”</p><p>            This was Martin, now holding himself directly in between Jon and Tim.</p><p>            “Martin, what are you—” Tim started.</p><p>            “No, both of you, <em>quiet!</em> This is <em>not </em>the question we need to be asking right now! There are <em>worms </em>outside, guys! I am sorry I <em>ever </em>brought up this stupid subject! It isn’t important, and we can talk about this <em>later!” </em>Martin was heaving with an emotion Tim knew well enough as an amalgamation of fear and desperation.</p><p>            The pause that followed filled the air, hot and thick and almost alive.</p><p>            “Okay, then,” Tim said, leaning back. His eyes didn’t leave Jon’s. “Then let’s go onto a different question. Namely, why can’t anyone else see the Thing?”</p><p>            “Toy Soldier.”</p><p>            Tim suppressed the growl rising in his throat. “Fine, the Toy Soldier. Why can’t they see it?”</p><p>            Sasha raised her hand. “I think I know this one, actually,” she said.</p><p>            “By all means, do go on,” Jon replied, shooting a glance at Tim, who was, all of a sudden, too tired to retaliate.</p><p>            Sasha shrugged. “Okay. So I heard Melanie King—”</p><p>            “Wait, the Youtuber?” Martin interrupted.</p><p>            “Yes, the Youtuber, Martin,” Jon said with a heavy sigh that did not remind Tim whatsoever of any brother he may or may not have ever had. The only feeling Tim felt was rage towards Jon, pure and undiluted. Also, Jon’s hair was mussed up again. Tim did not resist the urge to put his hand in Jon’s hair. He didn’t have an urge to do so in the first place. That would be insane.</p><p>            Sasha started again. “Melanie King definitely heard at least <em>some</em>one that Jon talks to, and I’ve seen other people come in and seemingly look at nothing, talk to themselves—”</p><p>            “Or, rather, my Crew,” Jon said, his voice small.</p><p>            “Save all comments ‘til the end, please,” Sasha said, her voice louder than the area should have permitted. “But only a few—Naomi Herne, Lionel Elliot, —”</p><p>            “Only the ones whose statements won’t record,” Martin realized.</p><p>            “Yes, exactly. Only those actually seem to be holding a conversation, doing <em>something. </em>I…Doctor Elliot started screaming about his changeling kids again, and some sort of soldier…” Sasha trailed off.</p><p>            Tim’s face thinned into a grimace. “A Toy Soldier, I’m guessing?”</p><p>            “<em>The </em>Toy Soldier,” Jon repeated.</p><p>            Tim waved him off with his non-wormified hand. “Shut up, don’t care.”</p><p>            Sasha inhaled, nodding. “And Naomi Herne talked about a brass robot of some sort—"</p><p>            “Not a robot, he’s still got his heart,” Jon corrected, rubbing his neck sheepishly.</p><p>            “Okay, that’s <em>really </em>creepy, moving past,” Sasha continued, glancing at Jon with a disturbed look in her eyes. Tim could genuinely say that he felt exactly the same. “So it stands to reason that,” she looked at Tim with that question in her eyes. Tim nodded grimly. “with Tim’s experiences being what they are—”</p><p>            “I refuse to further comment,” Tim clarified.</p><p>            “Something to do with a Circus, I’d guess,” Tim heard someone say, the authoritative tone reminding him vaguely of some sort of lab worker. He whipped his head around. Nothing.</p><p>            “Which Tim refuses to further comment on, but it makes sense that he would be able to see something that Martin and I,” Sasha gestured to both herself and Martin, “wouldn’t be able to. At least, concerning the people Jon can see.”</p><p>            “That…that makes a lot of sense, actually,” Martin said. “But then—”</p><p>            “Then the worms may actually be able to <em>harm </em>the Toy Soldier, yes, exactly, Martin!” Jon said. “Which is why we’re trying to make a plan to get it safe!” A long-suffering sigh. “And no, I don’t <em>care </em>if it’s immortal, d’Ville, it’s still our <em>friend, </em>someone shoot him please,” he said. A pause. “Thank you.”</p><p>            Tim felt vaguely sick to his stomach.</p><p>            Martin put his hands in a placating gesture, the look on his face mirroring Tim’s emotions. “Okay, wait, wait, a few things, things—one, that wasn’t what I was going to say, and two, you want to <em>open the door?!”</em></p><p>“I mean, we’re going to have to eventually,” Sasha pointed out.</p><p>            “Yes, but—”    </p><p>            “We should go,” Tim said. All eyes turned to stare at him.  “What? We’re gonna have to already, and there’s a <em>Toy </em>to save,” he grinned, his teeth grinding in a way his dentist was going to yell at him over later.</p><p>            “…What?” The word held more emotion than the rest of the conversation combined, somehow. Martin worked wonders when it came to enunciation. “But, your arm—”</p><p>            “My arm’s fine, Marto,” Tim said, flashing Martin a crooked smile. “See?” Tim lifted his arm and waved it at Martin, resolutely ignoring the pain streaking down it, taut like a stretched rubber band. His breathing caught. He ignored it.</p><p>            Martin bit his lip, eyeing Tim with that Look. <em>Goddamnit, this was not the time to be mother henning! </em>Tim thought furiously, but alas, Martin did not have mind-reading powers. “But—”</p><p>            “Alright, that’s a majority vote, let’s go!” Jon stood and opened the door.</p><p>            “Wait!”</p><p>            Tim was going to <em>kill that man. </em></p><p>
  <em>            .</em>
</p><p>Sasha was, okay, well she wasn’t <em>happy, </em>but she wasn’t terrified out of her mind. That counted as a plus, in her opinion. As Jon opened the door (to the shocked yelling of everyone else in the general vicinity), she shut it firmly behind him. She wasn’t losing another one of her friends to the worms If she could help it.</p><p>            “Jon, what the <em>fuck?!” </em>Tim collapsed onto the ground, in a way Sasha was sure was only half in dramatics.</p><p>            “Yeah, I kinda have to agree with Tim’s sentiment on this one,” Sasha remarked. Really, she kept her cool quite well, if she did say so herself.</p><p>            “What do we <em>do?!” </em>Martin asked, his voice more breath than anything, and higher than Sasha had ever heard it. Sasha’s heart (pounding in her chest; she could feel the blood throbbing in her skull) went out to the man. </p><p>            The bolt of inspiration hit Sasha less like lightning, and more like the idea had been directly beamed into her head. “The hole!” she realized. “In Jon’s office!”</p><p>            “You mean the hole that the worms came from?” Tim asked. Sasha did not miss the hysteric note in his voice, but did her best to ignore it. “<em>That </em>hole!?”</p><p>            “Well, the worms seem to be all out in the main area now,” Sasha reasoned. She moved to look up through the window—no Soldiers, but Jon was already running towards his office, where, admittedly, the worms <em>had </em>thinned out some.</p><p>            “<em>How are you being so calm about this,” </em>Martin was pacing now, and his voice was definitively on the wrong side of hysterical.</p><p>            Sasha didn’t know. Actually, now that she was thinking about it, she didn’t feel much of anything at all. Everything seemed diluted, like someone had taken the situation and stirred it into a giant bottle of water. Other than the physical response, the adrenaline taking its sweet, sweet time to fill her veins and the steel drum that had replaced her heart, she felt fine.</p><p>            Actually, now that she was thinking about it, she hadn’t felt properly afraid since the first bouquet of flowers that Michael had left for her (they were a regularly irregular thing now—always a different type of flower, always made her feel vaguely sick to her stomach, and always showing up on her doorstep at intervals that ranged from two minutes apart to two weeks. Sometimes, they even had notes attached—things like “I’d rather eat your hair” and “friend, you have arms” in loopy/angular/handwriting. Really, Sasha had to invite him out for coffee again).</p><p>            Well.</p><p>            That was concerning.</p><p>            Something to analyze later, though—not now, when they were in the middle of an honest-to-goodness crisis, and Elias and the rest of the Institute had no idea what was happening with the worms—</p><p>            “I…Elias!” Sasha thwacked her head with the hand not holding the extinguisher. Oh. She was still holding the fire extinguisher. Or had she picked it up? No, her fire extinguisher was still over near Tim, wasn’t it? But no, it was in her hands—</p><p>            Not the time, she firmly told herself.</p><p>            “…Elias?” Tim ventured. “Elias, our doubleboss, made you calm?”</p><p>            Sasha shook her head, the movement making her glasses slide halfway down her face. She discarded them with little thought. “No, no, we need to warn Elias is what I’m saying—”</p><p>            “Fire alarm!” Martin realized. “We need to pull the fire alarm,” he clarified, glancing sheepishly at Tim and Sasha.</p><p>            “Great! Where is it?” Tim’s arm looked tense—Sasha could see the veins throbbing through it as Tim forced himself to stand. Obviously, his wormholes hadn’t healed yet. Judging from the color of the wound, it wasn’t even close.</p><p>            Something to take care of later. Tim wasn’t writhing on the floor anymore, which was good enough for Sasha, at least for now.</p><p>            “I—the other—Jon! What do we do about Jon?!” Martin turned, Sasha sighed. She was, currently trying to work on a plan for the person who was responsible for about 43% of her problems at any given moment.</p><p>            “You know, Jon is, on average, responsible for about 42.67 percent of your problems at any given moment—if I were you, I would just leave them,” a voice sounded from behind her. She turned to see a woman, with red dyed hair and a rather large tome in her hands. She stared at Sasha like she already knew mostly everything about her, and everything she didn’t knew, she was rapidly learning.</p><p>            Sasha cocked her head. “I was counting as an even 43%, actually,” she said.</p><p>            The woman nodded sagely. “Rounding up, I see. If you’re looking for Jon, he and the rest of them have gone into the hole in their office.”</p><p>            “By ‘them’ you mean his crew?” Sasha questioned, leaning into the woman’s voice. She could hear Tim whisper frantically to her, most likely things like “<em>what the fuck Sasha stop talking to the apparition” </em>and such. Sasha ignored him.</p><p>            “Yes, although we’re formally known as the Mechanisms,” the woman said. “I am Ivy Alexandria, the ship’s archivist.”</p><p>            “Oh, another Archivist?” Tim asked, louder this time, his teeth gritted and the words hazy. “Greeaat.”</p><p>            “No, an archivist,” Ivy corrected, although Sasha couldn’t guess as to why. “I understand the confusion, however.” She inhaled sharply. “I’m going to follow Jon and the others, I just thought you ought to know where we were going. I’d suggest at least one of you come with me to find them—another should get the fire suppression system online. I doubt your boss has it working.”</p><p>            “Alright,” Sasha said. Her brain hadn’t fully caught up to the conversation just yet, still lagging around the fact that the woman that had just <em>appeared in front of her. </em>“Thank you,” she said, instead of the incoherent screaming that was taking place in her mind.</p><p>            “Bye then,” Ivy said, and then she was gone.</p><p>            The silence that followed was only broken by Tim’s ragged breathing.</p><p>            “So is anyone going to acknowledge that?” Martin finally ventured, his voice bypassing all seven stages of grief and settling on numb shock. Really, it was quite conversational.</p><p>            “Nope,” Tim said.</p><p>            “Alright then.”</p><p>            Another pause.</p><p>            “Who wants to go follow Jon?” Sasha finally asked.</p><p>            Martin raised his hand. “I-i-I’ll do it,” he said. “He, I mean, Jon, Tim, well, you can’t walk, and Sasha, you’re the best with authority, Elias probably wouldn’t listen to me, and—”</p><p>            “I can too walk!” Tim interrupted. Sasha recognized his tone as the “you have affronted my dignity, and I am Offended” one.</p><p>            “No, you can’t,” Sasha said. “You’re staying here, you can barely sit up without collapsing,” she reminded him. Tim’s face turned a furious shade of red. Sasha ignored him. “Martin, you’re right, you should go follow Jon, then. I’ll get the fire suppression system.”</p><p>            “I—but—”</p><p>            “Tim, don’t even start.” Sasha gave him a Look. Tim shrank back.</p><p>            ‘Okay, okay, okay, do you have a—”</p><p>            “Fire extinguisher?” Sasha held hers up. It was a bit closer to ultraviolet on the color wheel than red—wait, no it wasn’t, that was eyeblinding fire-engine red. It reminded her vaguely of a power-up source in a video game, it didn’t seem to adhere to the warm shadowy light around it. “Yep.”</p><p>            Martin held his up as well, smiling wanly. “I—okay then. I guess we just, we just leave then?”</p><p>            Sasha took a deep breath. She felt something crawling up her back. Probably nerves.</p><p>            She stood, and she opened the door.</p><p>            A tape recorder, gone unnoticed in the room, clicked off.</p><p>            .</p><p>            “Gunpowder, I am <em>not </em>going back for them!” Jon restated for the fiftieth time, spraying a plume of carbon dioxide at a now-silent wriggle of worms. “They’re safer in there anyway, and we have to go find the Toy Soldier!”</p><p>            The Gunpowder in question sighed heavily. “But Tim’s <em>fun! </em>And technically you’re also safer in Martin’s room anyways.” Jon could see Brian shake off a few worms that had decided to feast on his flesh. They had, apparently, not gotten the memo that Brian did not have flesh.</p><p>            “For the last time, it isn’t <em>Martin’s room,</em> good lord—” Jon broke himself off with a grunt as another swarm of worms made its presence known by their foot. Brian stamped on them with little effort, a long enough distraction for Jon to spray the whole lot of them with Co2.</p><p>            The shivering of shriveled worm corpses was one of Jon’s favorite sounds now.</p><p>            “C’mon, Jonny-kid! I mean, they’re gonna die anyway, they might as well go out with some awesome tunes in the background!” d’Ville called. He was currently doing an off-key rendition of Pump Shanty with Marius on violin (gloriously unshot) in the background, the worms avoiding them like the plague.</p><p>            Jon felt a sick sort of glee at this.</p><p>            “They are <em>not </em>going to die, d’Ville, they’re safe in Document Storage, the worms can’t get them there!”</p><p>            d’Ville shrugged. “Sure.”</p><p>            Something sounded behind him—Jon whipped his head around to see Ivy rush up to meet him, slightly out of breath.</p><p>            “Well, where were you?” Jon asked, not bothering to hide the accusatory tint to his voice. Ivy didn’t meet his eyes.       </p><p>            “Talking to your friends,” she explained simply.</p><p>            Jon felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he sprayed another wave of worms. The tunnels were stuffy, and he was starting to feel a bit lightheaded. “I—please don’t tell me you told them where we were,” he said, the note of despair in his words palpable in the air around him.</p><p>            Ivy shrugged. “If it helps, there’s only a 78.9% chance they take my advice,” she said.</p><p>            “<em>Only </em>78.9%?!” Jon heard himself exclaim. “I—no, that isn’t a <em>low </em>chance at all, they may as well be—”</p><p>            “In the tunnel, right behind you?” Gunpowder Tim remarked.</p><p>            “Hi,” Martin said.</p><p>            Jon made a sound that he would later recount as a groan, but was more of a dry laugh-manic-sob sort of situation. “Good lord, Martin, what are you doing here?!”</p><p>            Martin fended off a swarm of worms, spraying carbon dioxide as Jon spluttered in disbelief. “You shouldn’t <em>be here,</em>” he finally said.</p><p>            Martin looked at him sheepishly. “Couldn’t let you be here alone. Also, we have a <em>lot </em>to talk about,” he said, his voice just slightly higher than normal. “also is it just me or is it really stuffy in here?”</p><p>            “That’d be the Co2,” Jon remarked. “Taking place of our more standard oxygen, as it were,” he explained.</p><p>            “And what are we doing in here for?” Martin asked. He and Jon were now back to back, spraying from two different directions as they headed forward. “Just, you know, as a curiosity.”</p><p>            “Hiding from Jane Prentiss and trying to find our friend,” Ashes said.</p><p>            “Hiding from Jane Prentiss and trying to find our friend,” Jon repeated.</p><p>            “No, I, thank you, but I heard them,” Martin flicked his head to where Ashes was leaning against a tunnel wall, a little ways ahead. “I imagine they’re with you?”</p><p>            Jon blinked. “How are you not more scared about this?” he asked, genuinely curious as he sprayed an new wave of worms.</p><p>            Martin shrugged. “I’ll freak out about it later, also the Co2’s making me a bit little lightheaded?” he ended the sentence on an upturn. “And, and I just wanted to say—”</p><p>            “Oh, hello, chaps!” A familiar voice sounded from right in front of them.</p><p>            “I—” Jon paused. He knew that voice. That was— “Toy Soldier!” He raced to engulf said Soldier in a hug, The Toy Soldier folding itself into the touch. He couldn’t stop a few tears from pricking at his eyes as he buried his head in the Toy Soldier’s uniform. “Where were you?” he asked, his voice thick with held back tears.</p><p>            The Toy Soldier shrugged, the movement stiff. “I got separated from you lot in our game, so I went down to Artifact Storage—”</p><p>            “Artifact Storage?!” Martin repeated incredulously. “But that—"</p><p>            “Your friend is very rude, Jon,” The Toy Soldier remarked, shooting Martin a cheery glare. “Interrupting me like that.”n</p><p>            “Martin, shut up,” Jon said, their voice muffled by the Toy Soldier’s metal chestplate. He didn’t need Martin messing this up, the Toy Soldier was <em>back, </em>that was all that mattered.</p><p>            The Toy Soldier smiled. “Well, to get away from the worms, and I found a hole, and I went in it, and now I’m here!”</p><p>            “So there’s a way out then!” Jon exclaimed.</p><p>            The Toy Soldier faltered. “well, yes, but—”</p><p>            “WORMS!” d’Ville screeched, cutting off a sobering rendition of Old King Cole. “FUCKOFF WORMS! LOTS OF FUCKOFF WORMS WHAT THE FUCK—”</p><p>            “They may have followed me this way,” The Toy Soldier continued.</p><p>            “<em>What—” </em>Jon said, but then was lifted by Gunpowder, slung onto his back as he sprinted back in the other direction. He could distantly hear Martin shouting in the background, but the blood rushing in his ears was louder than anything else, so he cradled the tape recorder and the fire extinguisher in his arms as Gunpowder ran—</p><p>            Wait. Tape recorder?</p><p>            Jon didn’t have the mental energy to question it.</p><p>            When they reached the tunnel mouth, in Jon’s office, Gunpowder put him down, and Jon took a delirious second to wonder where Martin was. Probably behind him.</p><p>            He stepped into his office, bracing himself for worms.</p><p>            “<em>Hello, Archivist,” </em>Jane Prentiss hissed.</p><p>            “Shit,” Jon said.</p><p>            .</p><p>            The Toy Soldier was having a jolly good time!</p><p>            When it had seen all its friends and Little-Jonny racing out of their office, it had joined the race, as it had been a while since it had been in a good sporting event. It had also made many new friends, who had given it plenty of lovebites! It was going to be a bit of a pain to clear up later, but the worms seemed nice enough.</p><p>            Really, it didn’t know why Little-Jonny’s friends made such a big deal out of them. They really just wanted to chew; if you let them gnaw for a little bit, then they were right good pals!</p><p>            It had followed the worms into the Artefact storage, mostly because Little-Jonny and the rest of the crew had gone into Martin’s room—most likely to protect Little-Jonny’s friends, The Toy Soldier reasoned. They weren’t immortal, and, come to think of it, neither was Little-Jonny.</p><p>            It pretended to feel a twinge of sadness at that.</p><p>            The Toy Soldier knew that Artifact Storage was a place with lots of other potential friends, and it was certainly in a friend-making mood.</p><p>            Oh, was that a tape recorder?</p><p>            The Toy Soldier knew from Science Officer Raphaella that there was something listening in on the tapes, so it picked it up, brushing off the worms and listening to it whirr for a second before speaking.</p><p>            “Oh, Hello, Little-Jonny, And Any Others That May Be Listening!” The Toy Soldier sang into the tape recorder. “I Do Hope You’re Still Alive, You’re a Jolly Good Little-Friend And Very, Very Interesting! If You End Up Being…” The Toy Soldier pretended to swallow—“..Not Alive, Well Then, Whatever Else Is Listening, Consider This A Record Of My Time Away From My Friends! A Solo Adventure, If You Will!” The Toy Soldier brightened at that, marching happily through the dark corners, twists and turns that made up the Artifact Storage. “Jonny And The Crew Go On Solo Adventures All The Time. I Suppose I’m Due For One! Wouldn’t You Agree, Mx. Tape Recorder?”</p><p>            The tape recorder didn’t respond.</p><p>            The Toy Soldier continued. “Well, To Recount, A Very Large Wave Of Worms Separated Me From You All After I Lost That Sporting Game Of Tag!” It pretended to laugh at the thought. “I Don’t Know What You’re Going On About The Worms, Though, Little-Jonny, They Make Jolly Good Friends If You Let Them Gnaw On You For A While!” The Toy Soldier paused. “I Suppose You Can’t See The Worms Through The Tape Recorder, But Rest Assured They Say Hello!”</p><p>            The worms squirmed, The Toy Soldier giving them a beat to make themselves known before continuing.</p><p>            “They Don’t Seem To Be In A Very Talkative Mood! Well, I’ll Just Keep Walking Then!” The Toy Soldier cradled the tape recorder in its arms to protect it from the worms—technology probably didn’t get eaten very well, and would probably give the worms indigestion.</p><p>            “You Know, This Place Is Really Very Spooky,” The Toy Soldier remarked. “Much More So Than The Archives In My Opinion.” The Toy Soldier pretended to take a breath to continue, but then stopped short.</p><p>            “Oh, Little-Jonny, Look! Or, Well, I Suppose You <em>Can’t </em>Look, So I’ll Just Tell You Then!” The Toy Soldier peered at the table, running its worm-bitten hand over the wood. “It’s That Table From Ms. Patel’s Statement! She Was A Very Nice Woman, Wasn’t She, Little-Jonny Jr?” It asked one of the worms. “I—”</p><p>            Something. A rustle.</p><p>            “I—I Believe There’s Something Else Here!” The Toy Soldier exclaimed, its voice pretending to waver just the slightest amount. “I—Hello? Is There Anyone Else Here? Are You Perhaps Lost? You Don’t Have to Be Scared, The Worms Really Aren’t All That Scary Once You Let Them—”</p><p>            “<em>Oh, what are you?” </em>a whisper, a hush, coming from…the table? The—The Toy Soldier shook its head. No, that was impossible, it told itself!</p><p>            “I’m Not Sure What You Mean, Mx. Table!” The Toy Soldier said cheerily. “My Name Is The Toy Soldier!”</p><p>            “<em>You are strange, not like the others that come down here. Already so aligned with our master—”</em></p><p>“Master? Do You Mean First Mate d’Ville?” The Toy Soldier didn’t wait for the table to respond. “I Apologize, But Then You’d Be Wrong, First Mate d’Ville is, Although, The Highest Ranking Officer, He Is Not My Master! My Master Fell Out Of An Airlock A Very Long Time Ago,” it explained, “So Maybe I Don’t Have A Master Anymore.” It paused. It was being very rude, wasn’t it? Not letting its new friend speak at all! Very rude, The Toy Soldier reprimanded itself. “What About Your Master?”</p><p>            The table gave the impression of a whispering laugh. “<em>You are not from here, are you? But you understand. You know what it is like to not have a voice,” </em>it explained in a terrible silence.</p><p>            The Toy Soldier’s breath pretended to catch in its throat. Its heart, not truly Real, pretended to speed up in its chest, the not-blood clockwork oil pretending to rush through its system, making the Toy Soldier pretend to feel very, very afraid.</p><p>            “I---I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, old chap,” it faltered, its enunciation lost in the pretend-terror it told itself it felt. “I…my voice is—”</p><p>            “<em>Stolen, just as my identity. But your voice…it is very beautiful indeed,” </em>the Thing in the table purred. “<em>Come closer, Toy Soldier.”</em></p><p>The Toy Soldier found itself propelled, by a force that was not its clockwork self, and the pretend throbbing in its chest made it shake, and it thought it started to pretend to cry—</p><p>            The Toy Soldier stopped, a slight motion away from touching the table. It tried to run, but it was rooted to the spot as the shadows on the table started to move, as it solidified into something Very Much Not, and a terrible smile that was not bound to a face, and then—</p><p>            The Thing in the table reached a Something out to the Toy Soldier, who was pretending to shiver, with Pretend tears streaking down its cheeks as it grazed against its throat.</p><p>            “Please—don’t,” it choked, a hoarse whisper as the Thing in the table held it by its throat.</p><p>            “<em>This will do nicely indeed,” </em>the Thing remarked.</p><p>            A fresh wave of (pretend) clockwork oil-adrenaline-fear coursed through the Toy Soldier as it lost its grasp on the tape recorder. “No, nonono, please, please no—”</p><p>            And its throat was ripped out of its body, splintering wood and screeching machinery and painpainpain and the Toy Soldier <em>screamed</em></p><p>It was dropped, coughing and crying feebly on the ground, crackling wood-glue in place of its Voice short wheezes in lieu of words—</p><p>            The Thing that stole the Toy Soldier’s voice stretched, a vaguely humanoid form coming to it now. “well, that’s much better!” It said with horrible enunciated in The Toy Soldier’s voice, and when the Toy Soldier looked up again it saw itself, a copy, an imitation looking down on it, that wicked painted grin and those eyes (those were <em>not its eyes,</em>this thing that was impersonating the Toy Soldier looked nothing like the Toy Soldier at all, but it <em>felt </em>like it) crouching down to sit level with the <em>real </em>Toy Soldier, panting and heaving on the ground as clockwork oil and pretend tears dripped on the ground, stained its immaculate uniform with red black oil(blood). “Thank you very much for your cooperation!”</p><p>            It tried to speak, it <em>tried, </em>but all that came out is a pitiful cough, a hoarse whisper that wasn’t <em>its. </em></p><p>It wanted to scream. It wanted to do <em>anything, </em>but it was’s stuck here, stuck in this horrible horrible place. It reached feebly to the imposter, to <em>get </em>it, to do <em>something—</em></p><p>            The Thing tilted its head. “Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?” it said, and the Toy Soldier whimpered without a voice. It felt itself being lifted, haphazardly, loosely, oil dripping freely from its wounds and pretend tears messing up its paint and worm-bitten limbs heaving in pain (was this pretend? Pretend pain? Does it hurt to be this Real?). It could feel itself being moved above the table, and the Toy Soldier was struggling now, grunting and pushing as much as it could but the Thing’s grip was as strong as the Toy Soldier’s own, and it was dropped, and was falling, falling, falling—</p><p>            And it stopped falling, reaching nothing with a muffled thud and the feeling of claustrophobia.</p><p>            There were walls, now, four and closing in, and it could see the Thing at waist level, but that—no. That meant—</p><p>            It was—</p><p>            It was in the Table.</p><p>            The Thing crouched down, its hands dyed with the Toy Soldier’s oil.</p><p>            It had the audacity to <em>smile. </em></p><p>            “Well, I won’t be seeing you!” It said, cheerily, waving a hand that wasn’t its and straightening, turning sharply on its heel and walking away. Its shoes (the Toy Soldier’s shoes) clicked on the tile as it left The Toy Soldier alone.</p><p>            Something in its chest pretended to twist in despair.</p><p>            And the tape recorder clicked off.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>listening to lemon demon’s entire discography and writing crossover fanfic it on at 11:00 at night-what a perfect way to spend an evening!</p><p>and so we get onto plot stuff! I might take a week off to prepare the next Part, but also I might go off again so stay tuned ig </p><p>Comments, kudos, and critiques are always much obliged, seritonin’s one hell of a drug!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Jonah being an idiot: electric boogaloo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A statement is taken, and a door is encountered.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry for the vague hiatus, after last chapter i needed a bit of a chance to plan out plot stuff a bit before we really get into it— and ‘it’ gets into, I’ll tell you that for sure</p><p>god the formatting’s weird in this one, sorry about that</p><p>cws this chapter for:<br/>-worm allusions<br/>-Jonah-typical being a corporate ass<br/>-stalking<br/>-paranoia<br/>-someone gets shot but it’s not that big a deal</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonah was positively giddy.</p><p>His plan was working out excellently. Jon was using his crew as an excuse to push himself away from his Assistants at a rate faster than Jonah was even anticipating, each petty excuse and deflection inching him ever closer to a complete shutoff from the only people in the world who cared for him. Although, yes, it was almost certain that the crew were some sort of tangible beings at this point, and that blasted wooden one had gotten itself stuck in the Web table instead of Sasha, the whole worm incident was a success. The Distortion would take care of Sasha soon enough, Jonah assumed.</p><p>And now, Jon, haggard and covered in fraying bandages, clutching a tape recorder like it was his only lifeline, sat on the opposite end of the table from him. Jonah felt a dark sort of triumph at the fear that wafted off his person like a particularly unpleasant perfume.</p><p>Jonah put an ounce of sympathy into his expression as Jon stared at him. The tape recorder clicked on as Jon inhaled sharply.</p><p>“Statement of Elias Bouchard, concerning—”</p><p>Jonah sighed, giving Jon a look that might have been construed as pity. “Do we really need to do this, Jon?” he asked. His voice was faux weary, a cold undertone to his words.</p><p>“Yeah, Jon, for once I’m with your boss on this one,” One of his crew remarked, cleaning a gun moodily in the corner. Jonah suppressed the urge to smirk at the blurred shape. “You already know all of this.”</p><p>Jon ignored the crewmember, turning back to Jonah. “You know things. I know you know things. I need to know the things I know you know.”</p><p>Jonah raised an eyebrow at the sentence construction. “Jon, you’re not making sense. As your boss, I’m telling you to go home.” He folded his hands carefully on the table.</p><p>Jon shook his head, his hair whipping back to sting him in his face. “No. I—no. I’m fine.” Elias resisted the urge to lean back into his chair, kicking his legs in glee. Jon straightened, tilting his head slightly upward as he stared at Jonah. “I’ll take everyone’s statement and then I’ll leave.”</p><p>“Liar,” another crewmember coughed into his arm. “You’re gonna do nothin’ of the sort.”</p><p>Jonah’s glance flicked to where the man was leaning casually against a wall. He Knew that Jon felt his chest tighten, that Jon knew that Jonah knew about his Crew, knew it more deeply than he knew most things. Jon shifted in his seat, the slight motion of Jonah’s eyes bolstering that fear that he’d be called out, that his crew was going to be caught—</p><p>Jon shook his head, more forcefully this time.</p><p>“Alright then,” Jonah conceded, suppressing the smile that tugged at his lips. “If you’re certain.”</p><p>Jon released a breath, his shoulders sagging. The motion sent a rippling triumph through Jonah. Already so broken by this one event. “Statement of Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, regarding the,” he coughed lightly, “…infestation by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, 29th of July, 2016.” Jon leaned forward. “Do go on.”</p><p>Jonah gave Jon an appraising look as he began to speak—some bullshit about budgeting and Co2 canisters and boiler rooms. Of course, all of it was absolutely false, but he couldn’t exactly say that he had his hand on the Co2 suppression system the whole time. That would look horrifyingly suspicious.</p><p>Finally, with a little edging on by Jon, Jonah finished his account. Jon’s face was stony and dark, the gauntness of his face making the shadows contrast under his cheekbones. His eyes, however, were bright and intense, much like Jonah’s own.</p><p>“And that’s it, I suppose. It was Gertrude Robinson in the tunnels, as I am sure you are well aware,” Jonah concluded. “It’s a mystery to me as anyone how she ended up there, but—”</p><p>Jon waved him off. “No.”</p><p>Jonah tilted his head. The confusion floating in his chest was airy and light. “No? Jon, whatever do you mean?” His voice had an almost sing-song quality to it now, like Jonah was a character in a children’s show.</p><p>Jon pursed his lips. Jonah could feel the frustration radiating off him in waves. “No, I mean that you know, and I know you know, and I know you know I know, and—”</p><p>Jonah shook his head, putting his hand up.. “Let me stop you right there, Jon. You are not only newly traumatized,” a thrilling sensation went through Jonah at the thought, “but oxygen deprived. I suggest you go out and get some fresh air.”</p><p>Jon scoffed. “It’s plenty fresh down here.”</p><p>A guffawing laugh made Jonah jump—a man in the corner with too many belts, one of Jon’s crew. He could see Jon’s hands tense around the tape recorder at the noise.  “Yeah, in the worm corpse lair! Plenty fresh!”</p><p>Jonah leaned forward in a simulacrum of sympathy. “Look, Jon, I know you’re afraid Prentiss might come back, but she’s dead. I was there when they cremated her. You—”</p><p>Jon snorted. “You think I’m worried about Prentiss?! Hah!” His finger curled around the tape recorder.</p><p>Jonah’s eyebrows moved together almost imperceptibly, the confusion in his chest solidifying slightly into something malleable and thick. “You. You’re not?” Jonah gave a thin smile, shaking off the sudden discordancy in emotions. “Never mind that, then. You still need to get some fresh air.”</p><p>“No,” Jon repeated. “Tell me about Gertrude.”</p><p>A sharp inhale. Jonah bunched his shoulders up before releasing them in a way he knew conveyed weariness. “Well, she went missing—”</p><p>Jon straightened in the seat. “That’s a lie,” he said, tilting his head. Jonah felt his face slacken. “What happened to Gertrude?”</p><p>The confusion in his chest turned to a cloud in his mind, tugging at the correct answer until it spilled out of his mouth, pulling free like a cord being pulled. “I killed her,” Jonah said conversationally. He blinked, putting a hand to his mouth. “Wait. I—"</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“Wait, what?!” another one of the crew, with red hair and a book in her hands, sat up. “I mean, that was likely, but he wouldn’t just tell you—” she stilled. “Jon.”</p><p>“Ask him again,” The one with wings butted in. “We need more feedback, we need—”</p><p>“We don’t need anything, Raphaella, let the poor kid think!” This might have been d’Ville, or Nastya, or Gunpowder or any of the others, but the voice was muffled under the roaring in Jonah’s ears. He was just compelled, wasn’t he? That was a Compulsion.</p><p>Jon shouldn’t have been that far along. He shouldn’t even have been close.</p><p>“How?” Jon asked again. Jonah could feel a wrinkle of static lacing his words as Jon gripped the tape recorder. His knuckles were white with tension.  “Why?”</p><p>The cord pulled the answer free, loosening it from the lies with a slight tug. “Three shots to the chest,” Jonah provided. “She wanted to burn down the Archives, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.”</p><p>Jon’s face was the picture of disgust and horror. He leaned backwards in his seat, the tape recorder now pressed protectively to his chest. “I’m not surprised,” he muttered to himself. “I’m not surprised, but that was quite rude, you know. A little arson never hurt anyone.”</p><p>The confusion solidified completely in Jonah’s chest, heavy and thick. He tilted his head. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked.</p><p>Jon was the one to raise an eyebrow, now. “Well, you killed her for wanting to set something on fire. It’s a good stress reliever, committing arson.”</p><p>Jonah resisted the ever-growing urge to splutter. “I—” he straightened, desperately pulling at any scrap of knowledge the Eye allowed him. Ah, he thought, snagging on a particular not-memory of Jon and the hazy figures of his crew in front of a burning wood structure, an abandoned house of some sort. “As your crew does?” he lowered his voice slyly.</p><p>Jon sighed heavily, in what Jonah disconcertingly noted was more exhaustion than creeping dread. “I suppose everyone knows about them these days, so yes, I suppose it doesn’t do any harm for you to know.” He picked at the tape-recorder’s casing absently with one finger. Jonah bristled at the casuality of it.</p><p>“Well, if you know this much, why are you talking to me?” Jonah countered, straightening his posture. He made sure to add a sprinkling of static to the words, give Jon a taste of his own medicine.</p><p>Jon shrugged. Jonah balked at the way the Compulsion seemed to wash right off him—he was definitely answering, but it was like he had wanted to answer anyway. Like Jonah’s blatant Compulsion did nothing. “I wanted to know what you said about Gertrude. Also, Raphaella wanted to get your voice on tape. Wanted to know if it matched.”</p><p>“Matched what?” Jonah asked, with a growing dread.</p><p>Jon blinked, as if listening to someone. Jonah looked around—the crew seemed to have disappeared. “Nothing,” Jon said, his voice slightly higher than usual. Jonah narrowed his eyes.</p><p>“You’re coming along quicker than I expected,” Jonah said, deliberately changing the subject. He supposed it had something to do with his crew, but it was something he had to look into.</p><p>Jon tilted his head. “Coming along on what? Being an archivist?”</p><p>“An Archivist,” Jonah corrected. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting your Becoming so quickly, especially after only one Mark, but ah, well.”</p><p>“Ah, well what?” Jon asked, this without any edge of static to his words. Jonah smiled in response. There he was, again, knowing things that Jon did not. He was on top. He who held the Understanding was king among the ignorant, and Jonah’s Watcher’s Crown would be completed soon enough.</p><p>“I suggest you go home, Jon,” Jonah deflected, sliding easily back into the ‘concerned boss’ persona he had perfected. “Get some rest.”</p><p>Jon stared as Jonah carefully stood, taking measured steps to Jon’s open office door and relishing in the crunch of the wasp larvae underfoot. He could feel Jon’s eyes on his back, could See him bristle in his mind’s eye.</p><p>Jonah walked calmly to his office, even nodding to Rosie (snooping in some files she shouldn’t have been but who was Jonah to judge?) before locking the door pleasantly behind him.</p><p> In the privacy of his office, in the presence of the Eyes that had shown him so much, he took a conveniently placed pillow from his desk, gripped it tightly in his hands.</p><p>He raised it to his mouth, and screamed.</p><p>.</p><p>Michael was fairly sure that Sasha had no idea how much it had helped her.</p><p>That was alright. Michael was used to (as much as anything could be used to it, or vice versa) being ignored, being taken for granted, taken for something he was not. It was the very purpose of his Being, and who was he to take its Purpose away from itself?</p><p>It watched Sasha curiously through the door, conspicuously inconspicuous in its beige paint and plausible doorframe. It was discussing something with that other Assistant—covered in bandages, a bright shirt that Michael admired, that must have been Tim, then.</p><p>Somewhere in Michael’s sort-of-perhaps-not-maybe-brain, it remembered something that did not happen. It didn’t remember Sasha, edging into Artifact storage, didn’t remember the Thing that took Sasha James and replaced her with a pale, blue-eyed Stranger. It did not remember this, did not remember the smashing of the table and the taunting tone of its own voice as the Archivist dropped the axe.</p><p>He believed it didn’t remember a lot of things that never happened.</p><p>It tilted its head (or, well, the space where his head was tilted—his head was somewhere in his left shoulder and thus didn’t move). Tim was getting more agitated by the moment, his voice raising as he talked about a wooden toy and (urgh) the Archivist. It was really quite fascinating to watch—paranoia was closely linked to the It Is Not What It Is, and thus, the Distortion’s not-ties to the It Knows You gave this sort of madness a sweet taste to it, a bit like mustard, if mustard was bright green and also a watermelon.</p><p>Michael let its finger curl around the doorframe as the other Assistant—M-something, the one with the tea (names were slippery beasts, especially when the Forsaken and the It Is Not What It Is mixed, and Michael could already feel the fog obscuring its memory of the other Assistant’s name. Oh, well. English Breakfast was as good of a name as any) exited the Archivist’s office—just having given his statement, Michael supposed.</p><p>It quite liked English Breakfast, actually. Back when he had worked in the Archives, he had always kept a box of it in the cabinets in the breakroom—</p><p>No. Michael did that. Michael was insignificant and small and gone. Michael was all that remained and it ended this train of thought with a sharp squeal of the brakes.</p><p>Anyway. He was missing the interesting conversation—now it was English Breakfast trying to get Tim and Sasha to go home—Michael giggled at that. He would need quite a bit more luck than he had saved up to get Tim ‘friends with Sasha’ what’s-his-name and Sasha “the dead cat took after her” James to go home any time soon.</p><p>Still. The fear English Breakfast felt for his friends was, although slightly sour with the Crawling Rot’s touch, still spiraling with potential possibilities for terror, which was firmly the Distortion’s domain.</p><p>Somewhere, the future, sometime else, perhaps, it had a Domain. Somewhere different, a split timeline ago, a thing that was not Michael anymore died in the Archivist’s hands for the second time.</p><p>Michael took a moment to curse linear time.</p><p>It peered closer, creeping the door open like it had always been like this. Some of the Crew (the blistering heat aura of one and the cold and foggy endlessness of another) made their presence known, standing next to Tim’s ranting form. Michael giggled. Sasha was silent, now, and so was English Breakfast, staring wide-eyed at Tim’s side.</p><p>Watching Tim peter off as he tracked Sasha’s gaze was the most entertaining thing Michael had seen in a long time.</p><p>The quickly following screaming and jumping onto the one with the lighter was also amusing.</p><p>The burning embers one threw Tim’s candle-fire rage off in a second—compared to them, their raging bonfire, the planet-burner, Tim was a hot flash in the pan—little more than a momentary spark in an otherwise indifferent universe.</p><p>The other one, made of brass as cold as the vacuum of space, made a sound that was best construed as a dignified squeak. “Ashes no,”  he said, his voice the picture of horror. Michael felt no fear radiate from his metal skin, only that numb that came from a very specific place.</p><p>“What? He was being rude,” the one named Ashes replied as Sasha and English Breakfast peeled Tim off the ground. Michael grinned, at least, as close to the motion as he was able. This was the most entertained he’d been in an amount of time that seemed very long to it.</p><p>It had to be interrupted by the Archivist rounding a corner, seeing the chaos, and promptly ruining the mood.</p><p>“What the fuck?!” Tim spluttered. “Wha—What?!”</p><p>“I believe you just got judo-flipped by a ghost,” Sasha noted. “Or, at least, close enough.”</p><p>“Ain’t a ghost,” the one that smelt of fresh blood and leather called. Michael could feel the songs in his blood, and was reminded faintly of another band, one that was just as much Es Mentiras than it was Guerra Interminable.</p><p>“Close enough,” the quicksilver blood countered. The World Without Us clung to her clothes, the Neverending Space to the thing that was not a flash drive around her neck.</p><p>“Yeah, I mean, we do die a lot, and only Jonny-kid can see us—”</p><p>“Wait, wait wait,” Tim interrupted. “Wait. Jonny-kid?!”</p><p>“They mean me,” the Archivist raised a hand dejectedly. Michael felt a shiver of revulsion as he spoke, watching his shoulders sag. “Or Little-Jonny, or—”</p><p>“I’m quite sure no one calls you Little-Jonny, young chap!” the Not-Toy chimed in. Michael prickled at the voice—it matched the Real Toy’s one exactly. It was only the articulation that was slightly off—and although the It Is Lies and the I Do Not Know You intertwined closely, it still set Michael’s elbows on edge.</p><p>Jon blinked, getting a dazed look in his eyes that Michael knew well. “I—yes, Toy Soldier, you’re correct. Never mind, then,” he said.</p><p>Tim’s eyebrows furrowed. Really, Michael was quite disappointed. It was hoping (anticipating? Something along those lines) Tim would jump on another of the Archivist’s Crew, perhaps the other Tim, the noisy one with the guns. “Where’s the Toy Soldier, then?” he asked, his voice utterly soaked in venom.</p><p>The silence that followed was, although short, deafening. Michael clicked his fingers along the doorframe to relieve the quiet—the sound was something like an air conditioner whirring if you looked at it right.</p><p>“Right there, Tim,” Jon finally said, pointing to the Not-Toy, who waved. “Are you sure you don’t have a fever? I know you saw it earlier—”</p><p>Tim waved his hand in dismissal, wincing. “No, no, I know what I saw. The thing I saw was wood. This Thing is some sort of..weird metal.” He wrinkled his nose in what might have been either disgust or a sneeze.</p><p>“Aluminium, to be exact!” the Not-Toy proclaimed, saluting at nothing. Its joints screeched quietly as the metal collided, making Michael want to tear something to shreds, preferably something that would make it so it would never have to hear that sound again.</p><p>“No, it was wood, had a creepy-ass face—”</p><p>“Hey, you’re on thin fucking ice, bucko,” the fresh blood one said conversationally. “One more word out of your mouth and we’ll see if I can actually shoot you now!”</p><p>Jon gasped. “’d’Ville! No!”</p><p>“Oh so you’re d’Ville,” Sasha realized. Finally. Michael was, for once, grateful that someone with half a neuron had entered the conversation. “That makes sense. Last I heard, you were shooting…Marius? She looked around. “I’m somehow doubting one of you is Marius.”</p><p>“Someone called me?” the second fiddle materialized near d’Ville, who promptly shot him in the head. Michael winced at the sound, turning it into a three-tiered black forest cake dropping into a swimming pool at high speed halfway to its ears.</p><p>“So this is definitely your crew then,” Sasha said. Jon nodded. “Not ghosts then?”</p><p>“At least, not yet,” the one with an Eye for a brain accepted. Michael hated her on principal alone, curling its lip upward somewhere near its ribcage. “It is possible, however—”</p><p>“It is?!” Another gasped, the Infestation and the It Knows You intertwining in her metal wings. “How much of a percentage? I’ll have to experiment, it’s plausible, but can it happen? Does our augmented lifespan mean—”</p><p>“Guys?” Ashes asked, effectively cutting off a train of thought that Michael found inconvenient at best.</p><p>“Yes, Ashes?”  the Archivist asked.</p><p>“Are we gonna acknowledge the guy on the ceiling, or…”</p><p>Michael felt a deep jolt of Knowing course through it as the Archivist looked up to its door, manifested on the ceiling so it could observe unnoticed. It made a sound that was almost a squeak (but not really, if you looked at it sideways), and in the shock of his hiding place being revealed, its fingers slipped.</p><p>For one horrible moment, Michael understood the petty fear of the Vast. And then it didn’t, landing in a distorted pile of curling hair and bones at Sasha’s feet.</p><p>“Michael?!” Sasha exclaimed, and it promptly blacked out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>not!ts canonically looks like a middle school play rendition of the tin man from wizard of oz</p><p>so I did try responding to comments, which very quickly became apparent that that Would Not work, sorry about that? I do read all of them though and rest assured this story would not exist without all the feedback! thank you so much everyone who’s commented, kudosed, and bookmarked, ya’ll are amazing &lt;33</p><p>as always, comments, kudos, and critiques are appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Fire extinguishers (to an extent)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a person/not/something is interrogated badly. Sasha has an identity crisis, and Harry Potter polycules are debated.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>current mood: that one part in cabinet man where the singer is trying to justify eating people </p><p>cws this chapter for:</p><p>-shots fired, literally and metaphorically<br/>-Michael-levels of uncanny<br/>-surprisingly, no mechs die for once <br/>-don’t expect it to become a habit</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha didn’t hate Michael as much as the others seemed to, which, for some reason, made her the mediator.</p><p>            Really, she didn’t think this was the time for this. Jon had yet to explain barely <em>anything </em>about the Crew, other than the fact that they existed and had existed since Jon had been born. He was being cagey, and Sasha wanted to pry open his explanations and analyze them under a metaphorical microscope until she figured out exactly what made him tick.</p><p>            Also, the Crewmate with impossibly intricate metal wings had glued herself to Sasha’s side (or, if Jon’s explanation was to be believed, this was how –Raphaella, she remembered—usually acted) so that was a thing that was happening.</p><p>            And now Michael was sitting cross-legged (horrifyingly literally—its legs looked a bit like overcooked noodles and were wrapping around each other they same way that silly string sprayed), ostensibly handcuffed to the desk with a pair of police-grade handcuffs Jon had pulled out of his police-grade handcuffs drawer.</p><p>Sasha should have probably been more worried about the handcuff drawer, but she couldn’t really bring herself to care in light of other events.</p><p>Currently, four guns were pointed at Michael’s head (four members of Jon’s Crew, Sasha hadn’t learned their names yet), although it was hard to pinpoint exactly <em>where </em>its head was. The singular features seemed to stand out—those were definitely eyes, and that red thing was probably a mouth, if it wasn’t an artery, and the highlighter-yellow curls above them screamed that it was hair, and, barring that, probably some sort of nostril—but when Sasha tried to put it all together, see the <em>face, </em>her head pounded wickedly, like someone trying to squeeze an elephant through a syringe.</p><p>Sasha shook her head. Michael was out of the handcuffs now, a lazy grin up near its (well, what Sasha assumed to be) feet. Figured that a monster of insanity couldn’t be contained by metal, but that still raised the question as to why he was staying in the first place.</p><p>Sasha pursed her lips. She hadn’t remembered Michael being so…overtly monstrous when they had gone to that coffee shop, not at all like now. She tacked that observation to the Explore More In-Depth Later board in her mind.</p><p>“Why are you here?” Jon asked, the axe in his hand steady despite the fact that it was about half the length of Jon’s body, almost comically oversized. “Or, better yet, <em>what </em>did you hear?” he tilted his head to the side like an interrogating cop in a blockbuster action flick. It would have been intimidating, if he weren’t leaning on one of his Crew (unhealthily pale, almost blue—if any one of the Crew were to be a ghost, it would be them) like a safety net.</p><p>Michael giggled, twirling a strand of hair until it seemed to bounce into a spring. “Oh, Archivist, you are so much more entertaining than you used to be/were never/might have been!” the words danced in the air around it, making Sasha’s head do an improvised version of the Macarena. “Your static hangs in the air. Alas, I do not have an answer for you other than the one already given.”</p><p>“Used to be?” One of the Crew asked, sitting cross-legged and staring intently at Michael. This one was hugging a book to their chest, and staring at Michael with an intensity that Sasha felt deep in her chest.</p><p>Michael curled its lip, its demeanor stilling and hardening in a second. “The Eyes on one’s skin do dances, ship’s archivist. If your mind is a mystery even to yourself, how do you expect one to know its own?” the sound reverberated around the room, like a feedback loop of eldritch insanity. It turned to Jon, the grin sharpening and prickling up Sasha’s spine. “Sasha will speak.” Michael turned to Sasha, eyes widening. “We are friends.”</p><p>Sasha risked a glance at Tim, who was staring at Sasha with an understandable mix of shock, judgement, and weariness. “Sash, you wanna explain?” his voice was cold, but the kind of cold you got from standing in a hot shower for too long.</p><p>Sasha let out a heavy sigh. “As much as anyone <em>can </em>be friends with a monster—” she pointedly ignored Michael’s high and warbling laugh, like a siren, if sirens were made of orange juice and bad ideas. “Yes. I suppose.”</p><p>Michael’s grin widened exponentially. “Flowers are the key to a healthy relationship,” he explained, explaining absolutely nothing.</p><p>“And it <em>didn’t </em>seem like a good idea to tell us about your creepy monster stalker?” Tim’s eyes narrowed, but there was no real venom in the look.</p><p>“Well, in my defense, I had other things on my mind,” Sasha retorted. “Worms, for example,” she said, gesturing to the worm carcasses that littered every surface. She wasn’t <em>quite </em>sure why they were in the building in the first place, now that she thought about it—this was about as far from sanitary as one could get.  Sasha grimaced. “Lots of worms.”</p><p>“Not worms,” Raphaella corrected, nudging Sasha in the side with a humungous metal wing. Sasha would have flinched away, if she weren’t about 40% sure that someone would shoot her for ‘insulting our Science Officer’ if she did so. “Wasp larvae.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>disgusting!” </em>That was Martin, shaking, and really, Sasha did feel bad for him. The worms seemed to affect him worse than anyone else, even though it was Tim and Jon who bore the brunt of the physical scars (still bandaged and bleeding). He curled around a wicked-sharp-looking axe, his hands gripping the wood handle with an intensity Sasha was pretty sure was going to give him splinters.</p><p>Sasha fixed Raphaella with a patented Look. “Really? Was that necessary?” she asked. Raphaella shrugged, tapping something on the small electronic box in her hand—not a phone, but like if you took the essence of one and shifted it twenty-three degrees to the right.</p><p>Sasha put a protective hand on the fire extinguisher in her lap, which was probably some color or another. “Is this really the thing we should be doing now?” she asked Jon, who glanced to her.</p><p>“Yes, of course” he enunciated. “This…”</p><p>“Michael,” Sasha supplied.</p><p>“This <em>Michael </em>was eavesdropping—”</p><p>“Quite literally, too,” the pale Crewmember added, with a surprisingly thick Russian accent. Hm. From what Jon said, their Crew was from space. Was there a Space Russia of some sort? Sasha would have to ask later.</p><p>Jon nodded, adjusting their grip on the axe. “Yes, which means Michael knows something. And we need to find out what it is.”</p><p>“Or…” Tim interjected, “Just a suggestion, we could, and, don’t take me the wrong way here, I am <em>loving </em>‘interrogating’ Sasha’s creepy monster stalker guy, but maybe we could, instead, <em>leave? </em>And like,” Tim laughed, that breathy sound that only comes when you’re just a smidgen on the wrong side of hysteria. “The whole ‘gaslighting me with the Toy Soldier thing’s been fun, <em>especially </em>in the middle of a field of dead wo—wasp larvae,” Tim grimaced, “but also, have you considered, <em>not?”</em></p><p>Jon considered this. “No, I hadn’t,” he admitted. Michael’s laugh did loop-di-loops in midair. “Feel free to leave if you so wish, however,” they added. “You’re not being much help anyway.”</p><p>Sasha winced at this. “ooh, Jon, maybe don’t—”</p><p>“No, Sasha.” Sasha turned—Martin’s voice was sharp despite its waver. “No, don’t cover for him. If he wants to dig himself a bigger grave, then let him.” He stood; the axe still gripped like a lifeline in his hand. Sasha remembered her own fire extinguisher on her lap. She pet it absently.</p><p>Jon tilted his head. “How do you mean, Martin? I’m simply stating facts.”</p><p>            Sasha risked a glance to Tim. He seemed on the verge of what might have been either laughter or sobs. Sasha could relate.</p><p>            Martin snorted, drawing himself to his full height, which was admittedly vaguely imposing. If it weren’t for the fact that Martin was the embodiment of the stereotype ‘gentle giant’, she might have tried to defuse the situation. As it were, Martin needed to vent anyway, and it wasn’t like this conversation was going well anyway. “Facts? Oh, yeah, right, facts. Would these facts be anything like the facts you lied to us about for <em>months?!”</em></p><p>            Jon furrowed his eyebrows, looking to the pale Crewmember for support (they shrugged, leaning backward slightly, and saying something in what sounded like Russian. Sasha didn’t speak Russian, so it was all Greek to her, as the saying went. Except she <em>could </em>speak Greek, so tweaking the saying to say ‘it was all Russian to her’ made more sense, she supposed). He cleared their throat. “I—er, not sure what fact you would be referencing?”</p><p>            The Crewmember with more teeth than mouth barked out a laugh. “I <em>think, </em>Jonny-kid he’s talkin’ about you keepin’ us a secret for so long.”</p><p>            Martin waved to the Crewmember, probably in agreement. “I—yes! I just got that, from a person who—who I couldn’t <em>see </em>a few hours ago! Or anything!”</p><p>“Well, to be fair, I doubt you would have believed me—”</p><p>“At the beginning, maybe, but not after I was having a panic attack on the floor of my flat and one of your…your <em>Crew </em>told you to get me, and not after I started seeing a…brass <em>robot </em>out of the corner of my eye for <em>months—</em>I thought I was going insane!”</p><p>“Technically, I’m a cyborg?” Brass-robot-technically-I’m-a-cyborg- Crewmember supplied.</p><p>“No one cares, Brian,” another one of the Crew intoned, leaning on the desk side opposite of Michael and cleaning a gun. It was the third gun of its kind Sasha had seen him clean in the last half-hour stretch. Sasha would bet her life on a pineapple that he was Gunpowder.</p><p>A pineapple?</p><p>That was random. <em>Really </em>random. Especially since the picture that came up when she thought ‘pineapple’ was actually of a standard HB pencil covered in glitter glue.</p><p>She shook her head. Michael grinned lopsidedly in front of her.</p><p>Jon sighed heavily, putting a hand to his forehead. “Alright, that is…fair. I should have…”</p><p>“Told us anything at all? Ever? Instead of shutting yourself away like a YA love interest after they’ve filled their purpose to instill jealousy for the ill-conceived love triangle that’d be better as a polycule anyway but the writer is a douchebag TERF who doesn’t believe in healthy relationships?” Tim asked, dryly. Looking around at everyone’s faces, he put his hands up. “What? I’m still made about Harry Potter.”</p><p>Sasha nodded sagely. “Aren’t we all,” she said.</p><p>Jon made a time-out motion with his hands. “Er-pause, a moment, here, Harry, Ron, and Hermione <em>don’t </em>all end up together at the end?” He pronounced ‘Hermione’ as ‘Hermy-own,’ which cemented the fact in Sasha’s mind that Jon was a heathen.</p><p>“It’s Her-my-oh-ne, first of all, and no, they don’t,” Sasha said. “What—are you saying you haven’t read the Harry Potter books?!” she gasped, putting a hand to her chest in pure shock. </p><p>Jon shrugged apologetically. “Only the first, the writing style got a bit…bland after that,” he said. “I thought endgame polycule was implied, however,” he added.</p><p>“Besides, it was an absolutely horrible interpretation of Harriet Potter’s actual prime directive to overthrow the rebooted cyber-tyrant VOLDM-ort’s operating systems,” probably-Gunpowder added, cleaning a new, entirely different gun than the one Sasha had seen with him prior.</p><p>“She was a jolly good pal!” The Toy Soldier (or, well, some toy soldier, Tim was adamant that it wasn’t the same one he had seen earlier, but Sasha didn’t know. She got an uneasy feeling when she looked at it, that was for certain. Like jumping out of the street just a car whizzes by.) piped up.</p><p>“Thought you hated zem,” the incisor-shark-tooth guy raised an eyebrow. “Made fun of your paint job or somethin’.”</p><p>The Toy Soldier shrugged. “Only sometimes! And zey made the <em>best </em>casseroles!” it added.</p><p>Incisor-guy tilted his head. “she was a robot. She cooked binary codes n shit into zeir food.” The Toy Soldier stared, Incisor-guy shrugging. “gah. you’d probably be into that fuckery.”</p><p>“Wait, wait, Harry Potter’s based on a true story?!” Tim asked, completely sidestepping the previous conversation with a grace not usually seen. “How does that work?”</p><p>“Time is weird,” Michael intoned, twirling a finger through its hair.</p><p>A bullet went through its (Sasha took a wild guess and decided that was its) skull. “Stop stealing my lines,” Gunpowder said, like he was commenting on the weather.</p><p>Silence.</p><p> <strike>Sasha was about to—do something, probably, she thought, maybe check if Michael was alive, because there was <em>some </em>sort of liquid draining out of him, sticky and purple like grape juice or cafeteria seats, and that probably wasn’t a good sign. She felt something in her chest—a buzzing, maybe? Something sharp and staticky, if static was also the color orange and a pair of headphones wrapped around someone’s wrist</strike></p><p>
  <strike>She was vaguely aware of someone talking—reprimanding? No, that couldn’t have been right, it was silent in the room, there was no one there except for Sasha and what might-have-could-have-been a corpse</strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>Oh, was that a door out of the corner of her eye? Huh, looked like it, pale and green and inviting her in. It’s blue paint job was vaguely cracked, but the door’s paint looked fresh and clean</strike>
</p><p>Sasha gripped the fire extinguisher tighter in her hand.</p><p>Michael sat up, giggling. “Oh, that was very rude, Gunpowder-Tim-not-Tim!” it smiled into its hand (fingers sticking into his face, clipping through like a bad video game render). He stood, unlooping his legs and twirling its face into something slightly more human-looking. Other than a slight indent on its forehead, there was no indication that he had been shot at all.</p><p>Sasha felt vaguely sick to her stomach.</p><p>A door manifested (<strike>had always been there, pale green paint and beckoning closer</strike>) near Michaels head, the open doorframe showing a seemingly normal hallway. “I believe this is my cue to blow this popsicle stand, as it were,” it giggled at this, but Sasha got the distinct impression he was always giggling, in some form or another. He turned to Sasha. “I <em>will </em>be seeing you,” it lilted.</p><p>It disappeared into the hallway, and was gone.</p><p>The silence that followed wasn’t exactly overwhelming, but it was getting just a bit too stuffy for Sasha’s tastes. She cleared her throat.</p><p>“Yes, Sasha?” Raphaella asked, bumping her again. Sasha may or may not have bristled at the touch. She was feeling sort of fuzzy, now that she thought about it, the cool touch of the fire extinguisher more disconnected than it had been before.</p><p>“We’re going home,” she finally settled on.</p><p>“Woo,” Tim and Martin cheered.</p><p>“That was incredibly useless,” Jon remarked.</p><p>“The tape recorder didn’t seem to think so,” Raphaella countered, picking up one that had gone unnoticed in Sasha’s field of vision. It was whirring away like anything.</p><p>“Wait, what do you mean, the tape recorder?” Tim asked, squinting suspiciously.</p><p>“Yeah,” Martin picked up, “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like it’s…alive, or—or…anything…” he trailed off. “Shit,” he finally decided on.</p><p>“Quite,” Jon said.</p><p>“Can we—can we turn it off?” Tim asked, edging away from the device. Sasha couldn’t bring herself to move, but she agreed with Tim’s action on a visceral level.</p><p>Raphaella shrugged. “It’s futile, but alright,” she clicked the record button off. It clicked itself back on.</p><p>“Give me that,” Tim reached for it, and Raphaella tossed it casually into his hands. He turned the record button off. It turned itself back on. And again. And again.</p><p>He leaned back. “Urghhhhhh,” he groaned.</p><p>Sasha agreed wholeheartedly.</p><p>A cool draft of air swept from the gaping hole (well, not <em>exactly </em>gaping, there was a plastic sheet over the thing) near the desk. She could feel the chill, goosebumps crawling up her spine, and Sasha could have sworn she heard something shuffling around in the darkness.</p><p>“We’re going home,” she announced, shooting upright. “Tim. Yours.”</p><p>Tim sat up, wincing at what Sasha guessed was the sudden movement—his bandages were coming loose. How long was it until he had to change them? Sasha didn’t know. “Alright,” Tim said enthusiastically.</p><p>Sasha didn’t realize she was still holding the fire extinguisher until they turned up at Tim’s house, Jon and Martin and Crew and all.</p><p>A question came to her, sharp and unyielding—something was different. She could feel it. It was something in the room, and not the obvious thing (that was to say, Jon’s Crew) staring her in the face. There was something wrong, and she could feel it offset in her bones. Something that had to do with Prentiss, and Michael, and this damned Institute altogether. Something that involved her, something that involved the Crew, whatever they were, and Martin, and Tim, and Jon, too. That sharp terror of narrowly avoiding danger hung over her like a cloud, like a remembering of something she had no recollection of.</p><p>Michael seemed to know. The way he looked at her—like she was an anomaly, like she was something gone different in the world. And its wording of things, somewhere above just headache inducing. Something meaningful, something dark, something that wasn’t there before the Worms.</p><p>And her question was this—what had happened to make it look at her like that?</p><p>
  <em>a scream—hers, perhaps, but not, something many-limbed and many-faced but that was her face but that was not her face</em>
</p><p>
  <em>she was somewhere dark somewhere cramped and small and she could feel the cobwebs in her throat constricting her binding her</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it could not call out, there was no sound in its throat, it had stolen that and it could not stop pretending to be afraid</em>
</p><p>She decided that she didn’t want to think about the answer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>look idk about the Harry Potter thing Tim just started talking and I couldn’t stop him</p><p> </p><p>comments, kudos, and critiques are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Jon getting stuck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Experiments are done. tunnels are debated.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, I am really sorry for this, but in-person school’s taking a lot of my energy and so I’m going to post a chapter every two weeks, instead of every one. sorry, everything’s been super busy and I’m by no means abandoning this story (we’ve got a bunch of plot points to delve into, after all ;)), and this also means that the chapters are probably going to be a bit longer, so that something to look forward to, maybe? You all are amazing. thank you so much for reading.</p><p>also, this officially marks the end of the first arc, as I have it written down, at least :D</p><p>cws for:<br/>-canon typical mechs death content<br/>-the toy soldier<br/>-implied unintentional gaslighting</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something in the tunnels.</p><p>It had been three weeks to the day, the minimum allotted sick time because Elias was a sick bastard who preyed on the suffering of innocents. What else was new.</p><p>They had come to a steady agreement, surprisingly enough. The Tims (both Gunpowder and Stoker) had taken to gossiping about the rest of them, which, although disconcerting, was probably a good thing. It meant that they were getting along, at least Jon fervently hoped so. It was always strange when one’s friends met one’s family.</p><p>Raphaella, of course, had stuck to Sasha like glue, asking her about Experiments she’d been running. Jon was actually quite confused about that—Sasha was smart, yes, one of the smartest people he knew, up there with Nastya, Ivy, and Raphaella, but so were Tim and Martin. And Raphaella <em>never </em>asked for anyone’s opinion on her Experiments.</p><p>Ah, well. Raphaella was allowed to do what she liked, Jon thought. The bitterness of the thought surprised him, but he put a pin in that emotion. Not right now, he told his Emotions sternly. His Emotions shrank back as if struck.</p><p>Jon and the rest of the Archival crew had long since dispelled the impression that they were doing actual work. Jon was, at the moment, working on trying to manifest tape recorders out of sheer willpower with Raphaella.</p><p>            He couldn’t stop thinking about the tunnels.</p><p>            He knew Sasha felt it too—the way she stared at the filled-in hole in Jon’s office almost wistfully, lingered just noticeably too long at the trapdoor in the maze of files. She held the fire extinguisher like she would collapse without it.</p><p>            <em>Finally, </em>Sasha understood emotional support weapons, Jon thought with no small amount of relief. It was getting embarrassing having to explain it to her again and again.</p><p>            Maybe he should ask her about it. They could explore the tunnels together—</p><p>            “Jon! One spawned!”</p><p>            Jon looked up, hurriedly adjusting his glasses. “Really? Where?”</p><p>            Raphaella held one up, an 8-track recorder whirring away like nothing. She deposited it on Jon’s desk for him to inspect. “Inside a statement file,” she said, absently preening a wing. Jon ducked to avoid being decapitated by a giant metal feather.</p><p>            “It’s quite outdated, isn’t it?” Sasha remarked, peering over to look at the recorder. “The ones that usually appear are usually the Jensen knockoffs, yeah?”</p><p>            Jon nodded, clearing his throat. “Correct. I’m not quite sure why they’re changing it up now—”</p><p>            “’They’?” Tim asked from the floor, where he was resolutely not helping and, instead, throwing paper Statement airplanes at the toy soldier’s head. Really, Jon didn’t understand why Tim was being so strange about it. Yes, it was a bit uncanny, but the best things were, in Jon’s opinion. “Who’s ‘they?’”</p><p>            “The powers that be, of course,” Jon replied. Raphaella hummed in agreement.</p><p>            “Riight,” Tim said, drawing out the word as he spiked another paper airplane at the toy soldier’s head. Jon furrowed his eyebrows at him. the toy soldier continued to stare at a wall.</p><p>            “What were you thinking about this time?” Ivy asked, tilting her head at Jon. He shrugged, pulling the tape loose with his fingers.</p><p>            “The tunnels, actually.” Jon wrapped the tape around his wrist, absently gnawing on it. Tim stared at him like he was insane.</p><p>            “Are you insane?” Tim asked as a paper airplane found its way into the toy soldier’s ear. the toy soldier did not react, instead staring blankly at an increasingly flustered Martin. Jon wondered if it was doing alright.</p><p>            “I believe we’ve already been over this,” Ivy spoke up, watching intently as Jon fiddled with the eight track. “Jon is not insane, however he does have a pathological imbalance of—”</p><p>            Jon stopped paying attention right thereabouts. Not that Ivy wasn’t being interesting, because she was, but Gunpowder was making funny faces behind Tim’s back, so it was hard to concentrate on her words.</p><p>            “Gunpowder—are you—” Sasha turned, staring at Gunpowder with a Look. Jon sighed heavily, tearing the middle of the magnetic tape with his teeth. Sasha’s Looks were perhaps one of the only things his Crew actually listened to, besides him, which Jon resolutely had zero feelings about and was perfectly okay with. Of course he was. It would have been stupid for him<em> not </em>to be okay with it. It was just a look, it wasn’t like they were going to revert over to <em>Sasha’s </em>side or something—no, Jon, there weren’t any <em>sides, </em>he reprimanded. You’re just jealous, he told himself, his <em>eyes boring into Sasha’s, her eyes swirling as they met his Knowing gaze, and he Saw a—</em></p><p>            “Jon? Jon!” Someone was snapping in his face. Jon furrowed their eyebrows at d’Ville, the man’s bared teeth the only thing in Jon’s field of vision.</p><p>            “That was quite rude,” he remarked, straightening his posture and running a hand over a bandage on their arm. “Please get out of my personal space, d’Ville.”</p><p>            d’Ville raised an eyebrow, like he was looking at a particularly amusing fail on whatever the British version of New Texas’s Funniest Home Visions was. “I’m not in your personal space,” he said. Jon could see Nastya sighing heavily in his periphery, however d’Ville’s face obscured most everything else.</p><p>            “d’Ville,” Tim (Stoker) said, his voice ‘mother-asking-about-the-broken-vase-in-the-living-room’ calm. “Get out of Jon’s face right the fuck now, or I will put Martin’s axe in your back.” Jon was impressed by his bravery, and horrified by the sheer stupidity of his action. He quite liked Tim, and now that Jon was about eighty percent certain that d’Ville would be able to actually shoot him, they mentally said his condolences to Tim’s soon-to-be-corpse.</p><p>            d’Ville whirled around, and Jon saw Tim’s life flash before their eyes. The first time Tim had introduced himself, and Gunpowder had latched onto him like a particularly gun-handy barnacle, that Sasha-arranged lunch, the many hours of him persuading Jon to slack off—</p><p>If Jon was quick, they could probably lunge in front of the bullet in time, but d’Ville’s reflexes were good, excellent, in fact, better than Jon’s by kilometers. But if he distracted Ashes, maybe they’d set the Archives on fire, and Jon could wrench the gun out of d’Ville’s hands in the ensuing confusion. That seemed like a sound plan, Jon reasoned.</p><p>            d’Ville stared at Tim for a second, and then burst out laughing.</p><p>            Jon blinked. Tim…wasn’t getting shot. Not even a little graze. d’Ville was laughing, which wasn’t unusual, but him laughing without shooting someone was rare at best.</p><p>            “You got good taste in people, Jonny-kid, I’ll give ya that,” d’Ville said in between breaths.</p><p>            “I mean—it was more, <em>he </em>went up to me, I—” Jon stammered. “Why aren’t you shooting him?” he finally settled on, cringing even as they said it.</p><p>            d’Ville looked at him like he had just said that he wanted to shoot his friend. Tim looked at him in much the same way.</p><p>            “Well, why’d I do that?” d’Ville asked. “First all, Cooler Tim’s already imprinted—”</p><p>            “Oi,” both Tims chorused with matching levels of indignation.</p><p>            Nasty coughed something into her hand that sounded much like a very bad word in Cyberian.</p><p>            d’Ville shot Nastya in the chest. Nastya rolled her eyes. “As I was sayin’,” he continued, like he hadn’t just shot someone in the chest, “A), , and <em>two, </em>he’s…” d’Ville snapped his fingers, donning his Thinking Face™, which was more of a pained grimace if Jon was being honest.</p><p>            “Amazing, hot, sexy, charming?” Tim supplied, throwing a paper airplane at the toy soldier’s head. the toy soldier stared at him uncannily. Tim didn’t look away.</p><p>            “Volatile,” d’Ville decided on, grinning widely. “Like….Ashes.”</p><p>            “Oi,” Ashes said, reaching for their lighter. Jon felt terror seize his chest.</p><p>            “<em>but </em>if Ashes was a baby and also like a thousand percent less cool,” Gunpowder jumped in hastily, thereby saving everyone’s life. Ashes flicked the lighter off, but kept it firmly in their hand. Jon leaned his head on their shoulder, the tape wrapped firmly around their hair in a way that defied explanation.</p><p>            “Oi,” Tim said. Jon didn’t feel as bad about pissing him off.</p><p>            “Wait, you said the tunnels?” Martin asked, surprising everyone by speaking for the first time in twenty-eight minutes and forty-four seconds. Jon sighed, relieved. He was getting worried about him.</p><p>            “To return to a previous conversation point, yes, I said the tunnels,” Jon smiled. Martin stared, unimpressed. the toy soldier stared at him unblinkingly.</p><p>            “This actually raises a good point, actually,” Martin continued. “What are we going to do about the tunnels?”</p><p>            “What do you mean?” Jon asked, for the benefit of the group. He knew exactly what Martin was getting at, and was giddy at the very thought.</p><p>            “Well, there are just, tunnels, yeah? Under the Institute?” Martin ventured. “That we’ve been ignoring for the past three weeks?”</p><p>            “Fuck Elias,” Tim added.</p><p>            “Fuck Elias,” everyone repeated.</p><p>            “Yes, fuck Elias, but seriously, are we going to ignore them or what?”</p><p>            Jon shrugged, the tape recorder firmly wrapping his arms, waist, and other appendages. The way the whirring made his teeth hum was strange, but not strictly unwelcome. Much like an exfoliating backrub, if that made any sense. “Well, I’d very much be welcome to exploring them—”</p><p>            This was met with polarized responses. Raphaella, d’Ville, and Sasha all stood up, adamantly declaring (and, in d’Ville’s case, shooting Marius-ing, which was an emotion in its own right) their approval of the tunnel plan. Tim (Stoker) was, as doing the exact opposite, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at the toy soldier’s head viciously.</p><p>            “Fuck no,” Tim said brightly. Sasha elbowed him.</p><p>            “Well, why not?” she asked. Tim scowled. Jon wondered idly if his face would stick like that.</p><p>            “Need I remind you that those are the same tunnels that the worms, incidentally, stuck their teethy little mouths out of?” Tim chucked another paper airplane at the toy soldier with surprising force. It collided with a small <em>thunk, </em>the nose smushing in on itself and sticking to the side of the toy soldier’s head.</p><p>            “No, I’m well aware,” Jon answered, looping the recorder tape around his fingers and poking holes in it. The casing was somewhere broken in his hair, he believed. “However—”</p><p>            “There’s something in the tunnels,” Sasha interjected. She paused, shooting Tim a sort of Look. “<em>Other </em>than worms, Tim,” she added.</p><p>            “Who said my name?” Gunpowder asked, looking up from where he was cleaning one of his neverending arsenal of projectile weapons.</p><p>            “Not you, Other Tim,” Sasha corrected.</p><p>            “Wait, are you saying that <em>I’m </em>other Tim, or that <em>he’s </em>Other Tim?” Gunpowder jutted his chin at Tim, who crumpled up a statement. Statement of Sierra Doty, concerning a thousand paper ostriches that had made their homes in her basement.</p><p>            Jon smiled at that. A strange sort of coincidence, he thought—</p><p>            Wait.</p><p>            How did he know that?</p><p>            Jon shook his head. Tried again. Yes. Beyond all rational reasoning, he knew that the statement Tim was now chucking at the toy soldier’s still-unmoving frame included a woman named Sierra Doty, a strange origami book, and paper ostriches with all-too-real beaks and claws.</p><p>            Well. That was concerning.</p><p>            “Another one!” Brian called. Jon looked up. A Sony cassette player balanced itself delicately on the toy soldier’s head. The twin whirrings of the new recorder and the one already dismantled made a strange discordant harmony. Jon felt something grow in his chest.</p><p>            “Huh,” Raphaella tilted her head, plucking the tape recorder off the toy soldier and peering at it.</p><p>            “Ain’t there already one here, though?” d’Ville asked, casually waving a gun around and making Martin wince. Jon felt bad for him. <em>Jon </em>knew that d’Ville wasn’t going to shoot anyone, but Martin was still new. He didn’t know d’Ville like Martin did.</p><p>            “Actually, that might have been me,” Jon raised a sheepish hand. “I, er, was thinking rather hard about recording a Statement,” he admitted.</p><p>            “Why?” Martin asked incredulously. Jon shrugged.</p><p>            “Haven’t the faintest idea,” he said. “I was just thinking about Sierra Doty—that’s the Statement that Tim just threw at the toy soldier’s head (really, Tim, is that necessary?)—”</p><p>            “Wait, how did you know about that?” Sasha asked.</p><p>“Yeah, boss, I haven’t exactly been <em>reading the statements aloud,</em>” Tim quipped. It wasn’t funny.</p><p>“Well, <em>actually</em>,” Ivy interjected, “Taking Raphaella’s data into account, codependency is basically a certainty at this point, and, as in most symbiotic relationships, a certain amount of activity is anticipated, or simply known on an instinctual level.”</p><p>Everyone stared blankly, save for Sasha and Raphaella, who both gave twin nods of understanding.</p><p>“Fascinating,” Sasha breathed. “So Jon has a dependency on the statements, then?” she glanced at said Jon, who frowned at her.</p><p>“I <em>am </em>still here, you know,” he pointed out. He crossed his arms—or, well, tried to, the recording tape was tied in such a way that it latched his arms in place, so it was a bit more of a tug than anything—, and Sasha had the decency to look contrite.</p><p>Raphaella, unsurprisingly, did not.</p><p>“Okay, but, like, what are we going to do about the tunnels?” Gunpowder asked, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“Nothing,” Tim replied.</p><p>“Explore them, obviously,” Jon replied at the same time.</p><p>They looked at each other.</p><p>Jon raised an eyebrow. Tim held his gaze.</p><p>And, after a horribly tense silence, one of them blinked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading &lt;3</p><p>comments, kudos, and critiques are always appreciated!</p>
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